


Doo Wah Diddy Diddy

by gutsforgarters



Series: Doo Wah Diddy Diddy [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Emetophobia, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Older Man/Younger Woman, Parents Daryl Dixon & Beth Greene, Pregnancy, Pregnant Beth Greene, Protective Daryl Dixon, References to Depression, Romantic Comedy, Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2019-11-17 15:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18101309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters
Summary: So, just to take stock: not only did Daryl fuck his best friend's barely legal babysitter in a fit of epically lapsed judgment, he also managed to inadvertently slip a couple stray swimmers past the rubber andknock that babysitter upwith some unholy Dixon spawn. And she wants to keep it. And she wants him to co-parent it with her.It's like a porno and a rom-com had a baby and that baby grew up to be a public service announcement.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/gifts).



> This is inadvisable at best.

**Saturday, July 13 th**

 

Somebody knocks on the powder room door, and Beth near about jumps out of her skin like one of those damn _Looney Tunes_ characters, fumbling her hold on the little blue plastic stick and coming _this close_ to dropping it in the toilet. 

No one would call it abrupt, the knock. Hell, it’s borderline _tentative_ , and in almost any other context, it wouldn’t’ve fazed her much at all. But, context: the context is that Beth’s feeling mighty jumpy, and with damn good reason.

She must’ve made an involuntary sound of surprise, too—a shrill little yip, maybe, like somebody stuck her with a sewing needle—because when Carl speaks up from the other side of that door, he sounds bemused. Worried, too.

“Uh, Beth? You okay in there?”

Beth squeezes the plastic stick so hard her knuckles bleach white through her light summer tan. The plastic creaks; if she throttles it any harder, it’ll splinter. Wouldn’t be much of a tragedy if it did: she’s got another half a dozen of the things buried in her backpack.

“M’fine,” she tells Carl. She doesn’t sound very convincing, but she’s also struggling to breathe through a mounting anxiety attack, so she thinks she deserves an A for effort.

Beth hears Carl’s feet scuff on the hardwood floorboards that line the hallway outside the bathroom. He’s not shuffling back to the living room, though. Just fidgeting.  

“You sure?” he asks, distinctly awkward in his delivery. Probably afraid that she’s having _lady problems_ , which, if only. “It’s just. You’ve been in there for a while. Was starting to worry that you fell in or somethin’.”

Beth tries to appreciate Carl’s attempt at levity. Really, she does, but her voice still comes out distinctly strained and unwelcoming when she says, “Nah, I’m fine. Think it was just somethin’ I ate.”

“Oh.” There’s a beat of silence as Carl very likely considers digging out the air freshener. “Uh. I think we’ve got Pepto-Bismol, if you want any.”

Only half listening to what Carl’s got to say, Beth turns the stick over in her hands, mouth going dry and coppery at what she sees.

“Uh, no,” she says distantly, dropping the used test into her plastic shopping bag along with the others. “No, thanks. I’m feeling better already.”

“Oh,” Carl says in tones of mild relief. “Okay, then. I’ll just, uh. Go check in on Judith, since you’re, uh. Busy.”

“Be right out,” Beth promises, and doesn’t relax even after she hears the scrape of Carl’s sneakers retreat and fade. She doesn’t think she could relax right now if her life depended on it.  

Beth plants her elbows on her bare knees and drops her head into her cupped hands, fingers plowing through her hair and inadvertently loosening her ponytail. She scrubs her palms roughly over her cheeks, then peers through her caged fingers at the clutter set up in a semicircle around her feet.

Plastic shopping bag with a drugstore logo printed on each side, listing to the left and stuffed to the brim with empty paperboard boxes and used tests. Her sky-blue backpack, zipper undone and insides gaping. Half-empty jug of water that she’s been guzzling from for the last hour in the rush to fill her bladder to maximum capacity.

She could keep drinking from that jug. Could use up the rest of those tests and hope and _pray_ for a change. False positives are a thing.

Beth doesn’t think she’ll be that lucky, though. No, she really doesn’t think so, because she has peed on not one, not two, but _five_ of those little plastic sticks so far, and they’re all telling her the same story.

Beth sits there for a second, digesting that, and then she does what anyone else would do: she slaps a hand over her mouth and _screams_.

Okay, it’s actually more of a thin shriek than a full-blown scream, and it’s muffled against her palm because otherwise she’d scare Carl and wake the baby. Still, letting it out makes her feel marginally better. _Marginally_.

Okay, fine. Five positive pregnancy tests that she had to take a bus to the next town over to acquire because she couldn’t risk anyone from school or church seeing her buy them, and then she peed on them in Rick Grimes’s bathroom because she couldn’t risk Maggie or her daddy seeing her _use_ them. So, now what? Blood test at the Planned Parenthood, she guesses, and she’ll probably have to take another bus to get there, because no way in _hell_ is she asking anyone for a ride so she can find out beyond a shadow of a doubt whether or not she’s been knocked up at the ripe old age of eighteen.

She’ll just have to deal with this on her own. And she _will_ , because she’s got no other choice.

So she stands up on numb legs that want to collapse underneath of her. Bends over to hitch her panties up. Flushes the toilet and shuts the lid. Smooths out the sundress she wore not as a concession to the steaming Georgia summer, but on account of the skirt made it easier for her to go to the toilet.

She should be shoving the plastic shopping bag into her backpack for later disposal in an anonymous dumpster. That’s what she _should_ be doing. What she’s _actually_ doing is squeezing her cheeks between her hands and swallowing back a hot surge of panicked tears.

It’s almost kind of funny, in a twisted sort of way. She only did it the once, but once is all it takes, right? That’s what people are always saying. It’s like every lecture her abstinence-only high school health teacher ever gave her made vivid reality. Well, those fundamentalist old bastards on the school board got what they wanted: Beth is never having sex again. _Ever_. The Greenes are Baptist, not Catholic, but life shut up in a nunnery’s starting to look mighty attractive from where she’s standing.  

Beth takes a shaky breath and drops her hands, stooping to gather up her things. She’s gotta get it together. There’s no point in loitering, and she’s being paid by the hour to sit Rick Grimes’s kids. Carl’s the best big brother a baby girl could ask for, but _he’s_ not the one who’s getting paid to watch his little sister for the day—although, technically, Beth’s being paid to watch Judith _and_ Carl, even though Carl’s convinced that he’s too old for a sitter.

Only it looks like Beth’s day with the Grimes kids is about to get cut short, because even though the powder room’s too far back from the front door for Beth to hear the click of the key in the lock, the distance’s not so great that she can’t hear the thud of boots on hardwood or the rumble of adult male voices.

The nape of Beth’s neck prickles, fine hairs standing on end. She was gathering up her backpack, but now she drops it right on top of her toes, and the shock of pain’s so bad that she can’t even make a noise, can only wheeze breathlessly through her teeth, mouth caught in a soundless shriek.

Shit. _Shit_. They weren’t supposed to get back until this evening—late afternoon at the earliest.

Okay. _Okay_. It’s fine. She’s _fine_. Her toes are throbbing like hell, but she’s _fine_. She can’t go out there looking like she’s been doing something wrong—and she isn’t, and she _hasn’t_ , because she’s a consenting adult and she can consensually screw whoever she wants—so she’s gotta compose herself.

And that’s what she does. She stuffs the plastic shopping bag into her backpack, wrestling the zipper shut and slinging it over her shoulder. Smooths and tightens her ponytail. Studies herself in the mirror mounted over the sink and decides that her eyes don’t look too red. Practices a wobbly smile that will fool a grand total of no one ever.

She picks up her jug of water, snaps off the light switch, and eases the door open. 

Rick’s got his head bent to talk to Carl, but he glances up when he hears Beth’s wedge-heeled sandals tapping on the hardwood floor. Father and son are the only ones standing in front of the open doorway, but Beth knows it won’t stay that way for long. They wouldn’t’ve left the door open if someone else wasn’t gonna come through it.

Best not to think on that.

Beth adjusts her backpack and wanders closer, trying not to wince too obviously. “Hey, Mr. Grimes. You’re back early.”  

“Weren’t biting much today.” Rick smiles in a slow and easy way that Beth hasn’t seen much of since he lost Lori, and something about that just makes her feel even _worse_. “Daryl caught a couple’a trout, though. Don’t that just figure?”

Beth’s wavering smile freezes on her face at the name, but then Carl distracts Rick before he can dissect her expression.

“You’ll never get better than Daryl, Dad,” Carl says bluntly, then dodges his father’s playful swipe.

“Shouldn’t talk about your old man that way.”

“Why not? It’s _true_. Daryl was practically _raised_ in the woods.”

“You old hens gossipin’ about me now?”

Daryl’s surly voice precedes his surly face, and then his bulky shoulders are blocking out the early afternoon sunlight streaming in through the front door. He tugs the door shut behind himself, string of stinking fish dangling from his closed fist. His eyes skitter over to Beth, stall, then skip away. And maybe his ears turn pink, or maybe it’s just sunburn, but regardless, he doesn’t acknowledge her presence.

The hand not holding onto her jug of water curls convulsively into a fist. Beth can’t get it to unclench, so she hides it behind her back where the others can’t see it. She’s fine. She’s gonna be _just fine_.

“Guess we are,” says Carl, and Daryl snorts.

“Don’t y’all got anythin’ better to do?”

Carl shrugs. “Just beat the newest _Grand Theft Auto_ , so I guess I don’t.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be lettin’ you play that on principle,” Rick mutters. Carl smirks, and Daryl exhales hard through his nose. Beth immediately recognizes the sound for what it is: a laugh. She recognizes it because she’s had occasion to hear it a couple of times, herself.

Turns out Daryl’s ribs are ticklish. Who knew?

“If you really don’t got anythin’ better to do, then you can come help me scale an’ gut these things.” Daryl hefts the string of fish, and Carl groans theatrically.

“Do I have to?” Carl whines, and Beth bites back a grin, a miraculous kind of amusement percolating in her belly.

So before Rick or Daryl can get a word in, Beth pipes up with, “‘He who does not work, neither shall he eat.’” Carl stares at her, at once betrayed and uncomprehending, and she clarifies, “2 Thessalonians 3:10.”

Rick laughs under his breath, and even Daryl’s lips curl into a halfmoon smile. His eyes meet Beth’s, and he shares his amusement with her for all of half a second before looking away and clearing his throat.

Oh. Okay, then. Moment over.  

Daryl nudges Carl’s shoulder. “Y’heard the woman. Move your ass.”

“But—”

“Boy, y’know better’n to argue with a practicin' Baptist. G’on, get.”

But Carl darts out of Daryl’s reach—not to make a break for it, but to come up to Beth and peer into her face.

He’s got his daddy’s eyes, has Carl Grimes. Not just the color. The intelligence, too. The _perceptiveness_.

“You feeling any better?” Carl asks, and Beth’s been sitting for him for going on five years, and she loves him like her own little brother, but right now, she could _shake him_.

“Told you, m’fine,” she says, trying to brush it off even as Rick goes on alert.

“‘Feeling better’?” Rick looks Beth over like he could diagnose her just with his eyes, which, please, no. “Is somethin’ wrong, honey?”

Beth forces a smile. Rick’s looking at her, but so is Daryl, and the latter’s attention makes her skin itch like it’s broken out in hives. “Just had a little stomach ache, s’all. I’m better now.”

Rick frowns, unconvinced. “You could’a called off. I wouldn’t’ve minded any. Told you, the fish weren’t bitin’ much, anyways.”

Oh, Lord. Why must circumstances force her to lie to a man with a scarily competent bullshit detector?

“Really, it’s fine,” Beth insists, a little strained. She pats Carl’s shoulder. “G’on, go an’ help Mr. Dixon out with the fish.”

Carl scowls, probably annoyed with her for talking down to him like a child, and turns away with a huff. He storms into the kitchen, and Daryl follows him after sparing Beth one last cagey look. Then it’s just Beth and Rick.

There’s a distinctly awkward beat of silence, which is thankfully quickly broken when Rick fishes his wallet out of his pocket to pay Beth for her time.

“They were fine, same as always,” Beth reports unprompted as Rick counts out bills. “Carl played his videogames and I just put Judith down for a nap half an hour ago. She hasn’t made a peep since. You wanna go an’ check on her?”

“She’ll keep for another minute.” Rick tucks the folded bills into Beth’s waiting hand. “I trust you.”

 _Ouch._ Rick’s salting Beth’s wounds and he doesn’t even know it, and the pain is somehow worse for his blissful ignorance.

But Beth’s pulled temporarily out of her sinkhole of guilt when she notices that the wad of cash in her hand feels thicker than it should. She fans out the bills and counts, then says, haltingly, “Uh, Mr. Grimes? I think there’s been a mistake. You paid me for the whole day.”

“Sure did.”

And just like that, Beth’s slipping back into her sinkhole. She shifts the jug of water into the crook of her arm and separates out the bills in a hurry, keeping half and then shoving the rest at Rick. “You can’t pay me for work I didn’t do.”

“Sure I can.” Rick takes a giant step back, hands raised defensively like he thinks Beth’s gonna throw the money at his face, which. She just might. “You’re savin’ up for school, ain’t you? Consider it my investment in the great young minds of tomorrow.”

Yeah. Funny. Beth doesn’t think her mind’s all that great, is the thing. If it was, she wouldn’t’ve gotten herself into this mess.

Beth sighs hard through her nose and folds her fingers around the cash. “You ain’t gonna change your mind on this, are you?”

“Nope.” Yeah. She didn’t think so.

Beth sighs again, quieter this time. “Well, thanks,” she says morosely.

“Don’t go jumpin’ for joy or anythin’,” Rick says, eyebrows just about touching his hairline. He’s studying her face again, and Beth doesn’t know if it’s a cop thing or just a Rick Grimes thing, but she suddenly feels like a perp sweating under one of those hot white interrogation lamps. “You gotta leave in a hurry, or d’you wanna check in on Judith with me?”

Beth should choose Door Number One, but what if it’s a trap? She almost never leaves in a hurry, so will it look suspicious if she does? Either way, she’s still staring down the barrel of a thirty-minute car ride with Rick from here to the farm.

Guess she’s going with Door Number Two, then.

“Sure,” Beth says. “I can stay a bit.” And she follows Rick into the living room to look in on Judith in her portable folding crib. The crib’s painted eggshell white and the little mattress pad is a bright, sunny yellow, the overall effect being that of a spring daisy.

Beth drifts over to that spring daisy crib and braces her elbows on the railing, cash in one hand, jug of water still dangling from the other. The baby’s fast asleep, fist tucked against her chin, drool bubbling at the corner of her slack pink mouth.

Rick comes up beside Beth and mirrors her pose. His elbow nudges hers before he pulls it back into his own personal bubble, and Beth has to fight not to jump. She’s used to being close to Rick. She’d even sit in his lap when she was real little, if he could manage to wrestle her away from Lori. It’s not unfamiliarity that’s making her jumpy.

“Swear she never sleeps this easy when I’m the one who's lookin’ after her,” Rick says, whispering for Judith’s benefit, and Beth smiles weakly. Voices drift into the living room from the kitchen, their words indistinct. Drawers rattle. Carl laughs at something Daryl said or did.  

The PlayStation’s off but the TV’s still on, tuned into Cartoon Network. The volume’s turned down low to an indistinct hum. Mundane background noise, like the chatter drifting in from the kitchen. It should be peaceful, but it makes Beth's teeth ache like nails on a chalkboard.  

“You hydrated enough over there?” Rick asks, nodding at Beth’s jug of water.  

“Hydration’s important,” Beth says, watching Judith’s little foot curl and twitch in her sleep. “And anyway, I shouldn’t be drinkin’ anythin’ stronger’n this on account of my stomach ache. I mean, I feel better now, but I don’t wanna risk it.”  

“Right.” Beat of silence, and Beth can feel Rick working himself up to something. She wants to escape, but she can’t. Even if Rick wasn’t her ride home, her feet feel like they’ve been filled with lead.

“Beth.”

_Here it comes._

“I know it’s none of my business, but we go back a ways—”

“Only back to when I was in diapers,” Beth says, turning her head to smile weakly at him, and he returns the smile briefly before his face gets serious again. Those eyes—Carl’s eyes in an older, thinner face—are the eyes of her family friend and the man who used to bring her M&M’s whenever he visited her daddy’s farm, but they’re also the eyes of a cop who’s seen his fair share of shit.

They’re the eyes of someone who recognizes a lie of omission when he _doesn’t_ hear it.

“An’ I like to think I know you as well as I know my own kids. So I don’t think I’m wrong in guessin’ that something’s been botherin’ you. Something serious.”

_There it is._

You can’t keep secrets from cops. Not from the good ones. Certainly not from Rick Grimes.

Beth tightens her grip on the water jug’s handle, smearing the condensation that’s gathered there.

She thinks on it. She thinks on Rick, and on how long he’s known her for. Thinks about how bleak things were for him right after he lost Lori, and about how he’s only just getting better now. Thinks about how crushingly _disappointed_ he’d be in her if he knew what she did. Thinks about how he’d probably go after the best friend he’s ever had with a goddamn shotgun if he knew what _Daryl_ did.

Thinks about that bus she has to catch to the Planned Parenthood.

Beth clenches her fist, crumpling the cash. The smell of money’s gonna cling to her fingers for hours after this.

“Beth?”

Beth presses her eyes shut.

“Mr. Grimes,” she says. “Could you, um. Could you please drive me to the Planned Parenthood?”

Rick inhales sharply.

A crash echoes in the kitchen, and the sound of something shattering is punctuated by a round of violent, impassioned swearing.

So.

There’s that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Saturday, July 13 th**

 

“I need you to come with me.”

“The fuck you need me to come for?”

It’s pretty goddamn rude, even for him. Out of character, too, at least these days. Daryl’s never been one to turn Rick down in the rare instances that the guy asks him for something, and he sure as fuck shouldn’t be turning him down now, not least because this entire shitshow is almost definitely _his goddamn fault_.

In Daryl’s defense, Your Honor, he’s currently trying to beat back something that a mental health professional might clinically describe as a mounting panic attack.

Anyway.

“Hey, language,” says Rick. His eyes snap to Lil’ Asskicker, who’s gone limp and heavy with sleep where she rests against Daryl’s shoulder.

It took them the better part of twenty minutes to get the baby to calm down after Daryl knocked an elbow into the dishes in the drying rack and sent them crashing to the kitchen floor, whereupon they shattered into neat little pieces (yeah: nice one, jackass). Usually Beth would’ve taken over from there, except Beth has locked herself in the powder room and is refusing to come out.

“Man, she’s six months old,” Daryl says, trying not to struggle too visibly with the whole talking thing, because thinking about Beth makes his tongue want to stick to the back of his throat. “She don’t even know what ‘fuck’ means.”  

“Six months is old enough for her to start vocalizing syllables,” Rick says with all the authority of a man who’s read two dozen parenting manuals cover to cover. “If the first thing she ever says is the f-word, I’m takin’ it outta your ass, Dixon.”

That ain’t the only thing Rick’ll be taking out of Daryl’s ass once he finds out that Daryl (probably) knocked up his teenaged babysitter.

Funny thing about that, though. Daryl blatantly eavesdropped on Rick and Beth’s hushed conversation—was kinda difficult, though, what with the way his blood was roaring in his ears—but it sounded to him like Beth was refusing to tell Rick who the baby daddy was.

Maybe it’s not him.

(Yeah right, _asshole_. It’s definitely him.)

Daryl hugs Judith a little tighter, and she nuzzles into the crook of his shoulder, making gurgly baby noises. It doesn’t help. Usually holding Judith calms him down in a way that nothing else can, but Judith’s a _baby_ , and suddenly the word ‘baby’ is laden down with all kinds of luggage that Daryl can’t even begin to sort through.  

_Focus, Dixon._

Daryl clears his throat. “Why you want me to go with you, anyways?”

Rick plants his elbows on the kitchen island and drops his face into his hands, fingers massaging his temples. Daryl would feel sorry for him if he weren’t so busy feeling sorry for his own damn self.

“Why d’you think?” Rick grouses. “I take her to that clinic by myself, everyone and their mother’ll figure I knocked up my own damned babysitter.”

Yeah. If only Rick knew. “Think you’d be the first sorry fuck to do somethin’ like that?”

Rick drops his hands and fixes Daryl with a look as sharp and cold as a hawk’s. “Yeah, except I _didn’t_ , and I don’t need that kinda shit gettin’ back to Hershel, Jesus.” The sharp look softens into wariness. “You _do_ believe that I didn’t do it, right? I’ve known Beth since she was in pigtails. I couldn’t think of her like that if I tried.”

Daryl thought he couldn’t feel any lousier. Turns out he was wrong. “Nah,” he says. “I know it ain’t yours, brother.” Knows too damn well, in fact.

Rick grips the bridge of his nose, and for a couple of seconds, Daryl lets the silence percolate. Out in the hallway, Carl tries to coax Beth out of the bathroom. He doesn’t seem to be having much in the way of success, though.  

Adjusting Judith’s weight in his arms, Daryl breaks the silence with, “Still don’t know why you want me to come with you. People see the both of us with her, they’ll just figure she don’t know for sure which of us knocked her up. Like some kinda _Mamma Mia_ -type shit.”

Rick is momentarily distracted. “You’ve seen _Mamma Mia_?”

Daryl’s face twists into a scowl, and it almost feels good to be annoyed. Annoyed, he can work with. “Merle rented it by mistake.”

“Sure,” Rick says, sounding entirely unconvinced. “Anyway, that’s not what people’ll think when they see the two of us with her. They’ll just figure we’re her dads or somethin’.”

Did he say it felt good to be annoyed? He lied. “I ain’t your fuckin’ boyfriend, asshole.”

Rick smirks. “You ain’t?”

“Nah,” says Daryl. “Wouldn’t fuck no goddamn cop, for starters. I got standards.”

“Whatever you say, honey,” says Rick, and he is honestly goddamn lucky that Daryl’s arms are too full of sleeping baby to knock the shit-eating grin right off his face. But then the grin fades, and Daryl hasn’t seen Rick look this fucking tired since those first hideous months after Lori passed. “C’mon, man. Just do me this one favor.”

That’s the thing, though. If it weren’t for Daryl’s own damn fuck up, Rick wouldn’t _have_ to be pleading with him for a favor. Daryl’s a piece of shit, and here Rick is, trusting him to help him out.

To help _Beth_ out.

Daryl puts up one last fight, but it’s mostly for show. He knows how this is gonna end. “I should stay here. Keep an eye on Carl an’ Lil’ Asskicker while you’re out.”

Rick shrugs. “Was gonna bring ’em with us. Carl wouldn’t wanna be left behind, anyways.”

Goddammit.

Speaking of Carl, the distant murmur of his voice cuts out. There’s the click of a lock being undone, then the creak of hinges in need of oiling. The nape of Daryl’s neck prickles, and he knows she’s coming even before he hears the clack of her sandals on the hardwood.

Rick’s eyes dart to the kitchen archway and focus. The smile that tugs at his mouth is strained, but the affection in his face is real. So’s the worry.

Daryl Dixon ain’t no pussy, so he turns around. He turns around to face the girl whose life he’s probably fucked up beyond all repair.

And there she is. Carl’s with her—holding her hand—but Daryl doesn’t really see him. Just sees Beth. There’s her round, pretty face framed in the halo of blond hair coming loose from her habitual ponytail. There’s her flat belly that might not stay flat for long, depending on how this goes. There are her eyes, and Daryl’s never been able to figure out if they’re more green or more blue, but he can see that they’re wet. Can see that they’re red and puffy from a violent crying jag.

Can see that they’re sad and scared and _knowing_.

Yeah.

Somebody call up Jerry fuckin’ Springer, because Daryl’s definitely the father.

“Hey, honey.” Rick comes around the kitchen island to run a soothing hand over the crown of Beth’s head, to tuck loose strands of hair back into her ponytail with all the casual intimacy of a man who’s known her for forever. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Beth sounds like she’s got a head cold. She doesn’t, though. She’s just been crying her damn eyes out on account of the spunk Daryl planted in her belly, and doesn’t he just feel like crusty shit stuck to the bottom of somebody’s boot.

“You wanna leave your water in the fridge?” Rick’s asking. “You don’t need to haul it all over the place.”

Right. That’s why she was carrying that big jug of water around. She needed to fill her bladder so she could piss on one of them pregnancy tests.

Christ.

Daryl ain’t no pussy, but he’s about to pull a pussy move, because if Beth starts crying in front of him, he’ll break down. He’ll break down and confess on his damn knees to what he did.

But Beth didn’t wanna tell Rick who the father was. If Beth doesn’t wanna tell, then Daryl can’t tell, either.

Girl probably doesn’t wanna admit that she let some dirty old redneck fuck her on her pretty linen bedspread.

So Daryl clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot when three pairs of eyes home in on him. The back of his neck’s burning, and he doesn’t figure it’s from sunburn.

“Gonna get Lil’ Asskicker strapped into her car seat,” Daryl explains, painfully, _crushingly_ awkward. He’s not a believer, but that doesn’t stop him from praying to the Big Man Upstairs to strike him dead on the spot.  

“Thanks, man,” says Rick, and Daryl shuffles through the kitchen’s side door so he doesn’t have to walk past Beth on his way out.

 

* * *

 

So they all pile into Rick’s stupid fucking Hyundai, Daryl up front with Rick, Beth in the back with the kids. In the rearview mirror, Daryl can see her gripping Carl’s hand, and from the looks of her white knuckles, she’s probably cutting off the poor kid’s blood flow. Carl doesn’t bitch, though. Just mans up and sits there and lets Beth strangle the feeling out of his fingers with her kung fu grip.   

Daryl should be the one who’s holding Beth’s hand through all this, is the thing, except he can’t. He can’t, because then Rick and Carl would Know, and then it would just be a question of which of them got to Daryl first. Rick’s a trained cop, but Carl can be a scary little shit when he wants to be. Daryl wouldn’t much mind being put out of his misery, but the sight of his violently murdered corpse would probably upset Beth and cause her to miscarry or something.

 _CHRIST_.

Daryl’s never having sex again. _Ever_. Won’t be much of a loss, either, since he never had that much of it to begin with. At the very least, he’s gonna sterilize his buck knife and fucking neuter himself.

Rick doesn’t seem to be in much better shape than Daryl, at least: dude doesn’t even flip the radio on to his favorite stupid fucking twangy country station, he’s so out of it. Which means that the duration of the car ride that feels at once too long and too short passes in hideous, hideous silence, a silence that’s only occasionally broken by Judith’s sleepy snuffling and the click-clock of the turn signal.

Daryl wasn’t kidding about the too long/too short thing, either. On the one hand, it feels like he’s been strapped into this stupid fucking Hyundai for the better part of forever. On the other hand, it’s like he blinks and then they’re abruptly at their destination, pulling into the Planned Parenthood’s square little parking lot and cruising around for an open space. The lot’s mostly empty, at least. That’s good. That means the chance of this getting back to Hershel Greene before the day is up has gone down by, like, half a percent.

Rick pulls into a space not far from the building’s entrance, nosing up against the trimmed hedges that border the narrow gray sidewalk. Daryl’s unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the car before it’s even come to a complete stop, fingers itching for the heft and shape of a cigarette. Can’t have a smoke, though. Not around Judith, and definitely not around a pregnant woman.

Pregnant. _Jesus_.

Judith’s car seat is strapped down on the driver’s side, which means that Carl and Beth have to get out on the passenger’s side. _Daryl’s_ side. And then Beth’s standing right fucking there, smelling like sweat and perfume, and she’s still holding Carl’s hand, but she keeps glancing at Daryl like she’d rather be holding _his_ hand, and she’s being so fucking obvious it’s a wonder Rick and Carl haven’t scented out the truth yet.

Yeah. It’s definitely his. Beth wouldn’t be looking at him like that if it weren’t. He actually did it. He went and planted some unholy Dixon spawn in an unsuspecting eighteen-year-old girl’s belly.

Daryl’s fingers twitch. He really, really needs that cigarette.

Daryl ducks his head and gives Beth an involuntary sidelong look of his own, but she’s not looking at him anymore. She’s not even staring at her feet the way she was when she walked out of Rick’s front door and into his driveway. She turns her head, ponytail swishing, and when Daryl follows her line of sight, he sees a bunch of adolescent white boys pouring out of a minivan that’s been parked farther back in the lot.

And they’re carrying picket signs.

Daryl’s mouth twists. Three guesses what these little fuckers are here for, and the first two don’t count.

He taps on the Hyundai’s roof to get Rick’s attention. “Hey. Can’t you go an’ break that shit up?”  

Rick’s in the middle of strapping Judith’s baby sling to his chest, but he follows Daryl’s pointing finger with his eyes. “They got a right to peaceful assembly,” he says. He doesn’t sound very happy about it, but he also sounds resigned to it.

“Ain’t much peaceful about harassin’ a bunch’a pregnant teenagers.” A bunch of pregnant teenagers with deadbeat boyfriends and shitty health insurance policies, probably. They don’t need this shit on top of all of _that_.

Daryl wonders if _he_ counts as a deadbeat boyfriend. He’s a deadbeat _something_ , anyway, that’s for fucking sure.

Carl’s scowling out from underneath Rick’s old deputy’s hat. “Can’t you arrest them?” he asks his dad.  

Rick settles Judith against his chest. “Not unless they get violent, I can’t.”  

Daryl looks at Rick sidelong. “Hey, Officer Friendly. You gonna arrest me if _I_ get violent?”

Only, it turns out that Daryl’s not the one Rick has to worry about. One second Beth’s rooted there like a statue; the next, she’s storming across the parking lot like a soldier on a battlefield, shoulders rounded, heels smacking off the sun-bleached pavement like rounds of gunfire.

For a couple of seconds, Daryl can only stare after her like a fucking moron.

The idiots with their signs are parked a ways away, but they’re not so far that Daryl can’t hear Beth shout, “James Allen McCune, what the holy _hell_ d’you think you’re doin’?”

Rick freezes. “Oh, Christ,” he says.

Daryl looks from Beth to Rick and back again. “Who’s she talkin’ to over there?”

Rick’s mouth forms a steep line. “Pretty sure that’s Jimmy McCune. One’a Hershel’s old farmhands. Him an’ Beth dated for a while.”

Daryl looks back at Beth, at this little slip of a thing in her white sundress with the pink roses printed on the skirt. At the thin, coltish ankles wrapped up in her sandal’s straps. At the gleam of her blond hair gone all gold in the sun. At the picture she makes surrounded by those stupid fucking boys with their stupid fucking signs.

Beth doesn’t need Daryl fighting her battles for her. She sure as shit doesn’t need his fucking _chivalry_.

But.

Here’s the thing.

Daryl’s once infamously short fuse has lengthened considerably in recent years, and he doesn’t know if it’s age or Rick’s influence, but he’s not as inclined to punch first and ask questions later as he used to be. He’s still a dick and a hothead, but he’s a dick and a hothead with some semblance of self-control.

Except.

Except he’s been fucking _furious_ with himself since the second he heard Beth ask Rick to please drive her to the Planned Parenthood, and it’s all been fucking _boiling_ inside of him since, all his anger and his self-loathing and his fucking _fear_ , and now.

Now he’s got something tangible to take it all out on.

“Uh, Daryl?” Carl calls after him, and that’s when Daryl realizes that he’s moving. Moving fast, too, bootheels thundering across the pavement, until he’s drawing even with Beth and getting a good gander at these idiots and their signs up close.

Daryl drags a disdainful eye over those signs. There’re little differences here and there, but they’ve all got out-of-context Bible verses scrawled on them in thick black marker. Some are illustrated with little lurid red lumps that Daryl supposes are meant to represent aborted embryos (fetuses? He doesn’t know enough about reproductive science to be sure).

“Y’all oughta be ashamed of yourselves—” Beth cuts off her furious tirade when she sees Daryl in her periphery, and she turns her head to give him a surprised look.

Holding Beth’s gaze for too long makes Daryl’s ears flush, so he keeps his eyes on the boys when he asks her, “What’s the problem, here?”

Beth straightens her shoulders. “These boys are makin’ a nuisance of themselves, that’s what.”

The one at the head of the group—Beth’s ex-boyfriend?—clings defensively to his picket sign. “We got a right to peaceful protest,” he says.  

“What’s there to protest?” Beth demands. “None’a you can get pregnant. You don’t get a say in what other people do with their own damn bodies.”

The ex-boyfriend opens his mouth, but Daryl cuts him off.

“You make them signs yourselves?”

“Uh.” The ex-boyfriend blinks, thrown off by the question for some fucking reason. “What?”

Daryl nods at the signs. “Said, did you make them there signs yourselves? They handmade?”

Daryl can feel Beth looking at him, but his eyes are all for the group of boys. A couple of them nod. Maybe they figure Daryl’ll take their side, what with him being a man and all, and one who looks like he probably votes red, at that.

“That right?” Daryl scrapes the toe of one boot across the cracked pavement. Cocks his head. “Be a real shame, then, if I was to shove ’em up your lily-white asses.”

As a unit, they all turn white as sheets, and the ex-boyfriend’s eyes bug near about outta his skull. “Man, what the hell—?”

Alright. Looks like he’ll have to be more explicit. “Get the fuck out.”  

Ex-boyfriend Jimmy rallies himself. “You can’t—we got a right to freedom of speech—”

“Freedom of speech means you can’t get arrested for expressin’ your dumbass opinions. Don’t mean I can’t tan your hides if those dumbass opinions happen t’piss me off.” Daryl leans in close, then, glaring at them from under his greasy bangs. “Now get fuckin’ gone ’fore I take that stupid-ass sign a’yours an’ beat the holy fuck outta you with it.”

Jimmy’s mouth works like he’s a fish fighting to breathe on land. He takes one step back, then another, and then him and his posse of pussies are scrambling to pile back into the van like it’s one of those little clown cars. The engine turns over with a cough, and then they’re peeling out of the lot like the Devil’s on their heels, tires squealing.

Beth makes a noise, and it takes Daryl a second to register it as a _laugh_. He looks down at her, startled, and when she smiles right in his goddamn face, his heart gives a hard, painful little thump.

Alright, so. Possible arrhythmia. He should probably make an appointment with his general practitioner and get that checked out.

“Thanks,” Beth says, quiet, like it’s a secret just between the two of them.

Daryl twitches an uneven shrug and looks away. “Weren’t nothin’.”

“Nah,” says Beth, and Daryl jumps when her fingertips graze his knuckles. “It was.”

“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see any of that.”

It takes every ounce of Daryl’s questionable self-control not to leap out of his skin when he hears Rick come up behind them. Did he see? Did he see Beth touch Daryl’s hand? Worse, did he see Daryl jerk his hand away like a kid caught knuckle deep in the cookie jar?

Substitute ‘old redneck’ for ‘kid’ and ‘Beth’s pussy’ for ‘cookie jar,’ and he’s got himself a pretty accurate summary of the events that landed them here.

Beth turns around, and Daryl follows suit at a slower pace once he’s pretty sure he’s got his face under control. He didn’t have anything to worry about, after all, because Rick’s got a reluctant smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. Of course Rick wasn’t talking about seeing Beth and Daryl touch hands, _dumbass_. He was talking about Daryl threatening a bunch of possibly-underage douchebags.  

Beth gives a little shrug, downright angelic in her projected innocence. “See what?”

“Exactly,” says Rick.

Carl’s here too, and he goes over to Beth and takes her hand because Daryl can’t, because Beth doesn’t want anyone to know that he was the one who knocked her up, and he still can’t figure out if it’s because she’s ashamed or because she’s, fucking what, trying to _protect_ him?

He doesn’t know which is worse.

“You ready?” Rick asks Beth, and her answering smile is weak, but it says a lot about her that she’s even trying at all.

She’s so damn strong, this girl. Strong, and kind, and _good_. Daryl still can’t figure out why she wanted _him_.

“As I’ll ever be, I guess,” Beth says. “Thanks for doin’ this with me, Mr. Grimes.”

“Don’t thank me,” Rick says, and turns around to lead the way to the clinic’s frosted-glass doors.  

The rest of them drift along behind Rick like ducklings following their momma, and when they’re nearly at the sidewalk, Beth turns to Daryl and says, “You too, Mr. Dixon. Thanks for comin’ along.”

Shame curdles in Daryl’s belly. Yeah, sure. You’re fucking welcome. You’re fucking welcome for knocking you up and ruining your damn life if you decide to keep it. You’re fucking welcome for ruining your life even if you decide to terminate the pregnancy, because it’s not like abortions are fun, and it’s not like this won’t get back to your daddy regardless. Yeah. Sure. His fucking pleasure.

But all Daryl says is, “The hell’re you thankin’ me, for?” And maybe Beth flinches a little when he says it, and maybe he feels even worse when he sees the hurt on her face, and maybe he should apologize.

He doesn’t apologize. He just stares at the scuffed toes of his boots and goes to hold the door open for the others, fingers gripping the slick metal handle like a goddamn lifeline.

 

* * *

 

Ultimately, Beth decides that her appointment could’ve gone worse. Everyone was real nice and consummately professional, from the receptionist to the nurse to the medical technician, and Beth wasn’t even the youngest person waiting in the lobby—which, okay, was actually kind of messed up. The nurse gave Beth a bunch of colorful pamphlets on birth control and STDs, and when Beth, red in the face, quietly explained that she _had_ used protection, the nurse gave her a half compassionate, half bemused look that screamed “Well, I guess you’ve got yourself some real shit luck there, honey.”

Yeah. She knows.

They also gave her pamphlets on what to expect from her pregnancy, should she decide to carry it to term. Also a package of condoms, which felt a little bit like being handed safety goggles after already getting acid in your eyes. Well, she guesses there are still STDs to consider.

Except there aren’t, because, like she said: _she’s never having sex again_.

When Beth returns to the lobby with her goody bag of pamphlets and condoms and a promise from the nurse that they’ll contact her with the blood test results in two to three days, it’s to the sight of Daryl and Rick pretending to be absorbed in some outdated women’s magazines while Judith drools all over her daddy’s shirt and Carl plays _Fruit Ninja_ or something on his phone.

Their heads whip up like hounds on a scent when Beth walks over to them, though, and if Daryl’s looking distinctly green about the gills, well. Beth can’t really blame him, even if she kind of wants to. After all, she knew what she was doing. This was a team effort, not a solo act. They’re both equally responsible for whatever comes next.

They get out of there in a hurry, and Rick drops Daryl and the kids off at the Grimes’s house before driving Beth back home. She asks him to let her out ten minutes away from her house so she can walk the rest of the way there. Says she needs the fresh air, and Rick fusses like she’s already nine months pregnant and fit to pop, but ultimately lets her do what she wants.

Rick rolls down the window and leans forward to take hold of Beth’s unscarred wrist. Gives it a squeeze.

“You call me if you need anythin’, alright?” he presses, and when Beth gives a halfhearted nod, he squeezes her wrist harder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make his point. “I mean it, Beth. I’m not gonna let you face this on your own. You’re family.”  

Hot pressure builds up behind Beth’s eyes like a dam ready to burst. She has to get out of here before she starts crying. “Sure. Thanks, Mr. Grimes.”

But Rick’s not finished. “Beth, I…look, I know it ain’t none of my business. It’s your body, and what you do from here’s up to you. But you gotta think things over before you make any lasting decisions, okay?”

Beth freezes. “You want me to think before I get an abortion,” she says, trying to keep a chokehold on the surge of cold anger.

But Rick shakes his head. “No, I want you to think before you decide to _keep_ it. You’re real young, Beth, and teen pregnancies—look, I read up on this stuff on account of—” If Beth didn’t know Rick as well as she does, she might not have noticed his voice break. “On account of Lori. Pregnancies at your age are hard. You gotta put your health and safety first, alright?”  

Beth nods. Yeah, she knows. “Alright.”

Another squeeze to her wrist, gentler this time. “Alright. Remember: anythin’ you need, and I’ll do my best to help.” Rick’s squinting in the sunlight, but Beth can still see the blue of his eyes. A lot of the time the color looks icy, but right now, it’s warm as the Pacific.

Beth’s smile is genuine, if a little sad. She bends at the waist and presses a kiss to Rick’s stubbly cheek.

“Thanks, Rick,” she says. She hasn’t called him by his first name since she was too young to pronounce ‘Mr. Grimes,’ but it feels right in the moment. She extricates her wrist and drifts over to the side of the road. Gets to walking.   

Rick’s engine idles for a little while, but then she hears the crunch of tires on the road as he does a U-turn and goes back the way he came.

He wants her to think it over, huh?

That’s the thing, though. She _is_ thinking. She’s thinking so hard it’s making her head spin. Thinking so hard that she doesn’t even notice the progress she’s made until she’s standing on the porch with no memory of the walk she just hiked. If not for the sweat on her skin and the ache in her legs, she’d have no way of knowing she’d made the trip on foot.

She digs around in her bag. Produces her housekey. Lets herself into the cool of the farmhouse and climbs the stairs to her room.

Daddy must be out in the fields somewhere, and she’s pretty sure that Maggie had a date with Glenn today. She’s got the house to herself, then, which is good. Means she can drop her backpack on her bedroom floor with a thud and belly flop on her bed, and no one will ask her any probing questions about the dead-eyed look on her face.

She forgot her jug of water. Left it in Rick’s fridge. Oh, well. Not like she needs it anymore.

Something buzzes. Her phone. She thinks about ignoring it, but it could be important, so Beth peels herself off the bed and kneels on the floor, digging through compartments and pockets until she’s got her cell phone in its purple floral case cupped in her palm.

She has a text from an unknown number.

_Is this Beth Greene’s number?_

Beth blinks a little muzzily, but then it clicks. She’s pretty sure she knows who this is. She gave him her number after he finished screwing her brains out with the hope that he’d be inclined to call her up and do it again.

He hadn’t. Called her, that is. Never even texted her.

Till now, anyway.

Beth taps out a reply.

_New phone, who dis?_

She drops her head into her palm with a groan. She doesn’t know why she wrote that. It’s a stale old joke, and anyway, he probably won’t even get it.  

He replies right away.

 _It’s Daryl Dixon_. Yup. Didn’t get it. Then: _This is Beth, right?_

Beth breathes shakily out, then in again. She’s got this. If her trip to the clinic and that ugliness with Jimmy and his goons couldn’t break her, then neither can this.

_Yeah, it’s Beth. How can I help you, Mr. Dixon?_

God, she sounds like she’s on the help desk or something. Should she even be calling him Mr. Dixon? Or are they past that? Like, his dick was literally inside her. Are formalities even necessary anymore?

Her phone vibrates.

_Was gonna ask if I could call you._

Right. Okay. Alright. This is good, right? Communication’s good. They’re both adults. They can swing this.

 _Sure_ , she taps out, fingers trembling a little.

He calls her almost immediately. Daryl Dixon wastes no time.

Beth accepts the call and brings her phone to her ear. “Hey.”

Daryl doesn’t beat around the bush. “Is it mine?”

Beth pulls the phone away from her ear. Stares at it as incredulity and anger war for dominance over her emotions. In the end, it’s a cross between both that compels her to hang up on Daryl and toss her phone onto her bed. She sits cross legged on the floor, fuming, until it starts buzzing again.

She considers ignoring it. She really does, except, no. She’s got some _things_ to say to Daryl Dixon, and by God, he’s gonna _listen_.

Beth snatches up the phone, plunks down on her bed, and accepts the call on the fifth ring.

“You freakin’ _jackass_ ,” she hisses before Daryl can even say anything. “D’you really think I’d sleep with more than one guy in less than one week?” Wait a minute. “ _Not_ that it’d be any of your business if I _did_!”

Silence. Beth starts to wonder if the connection’s been lost, but then Daryl finally says, “Guess it was a stupid question to ask, huh.”

Beth _almost_ smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. Real stupid.”

Another pause, shorter this time. “Whatcha wanna do about it?”

Beth sighs hard enough that the sound echoes back to her along the connection. She draws her legs up to her chest, pulls her dress over her knees, and just kind of caves in on herself.  

“Iunno,” she says. It’s not much, but at least it’s honest. “Can’t make a decision until I get the test results back.”

“Guess you can’t.”

Beth unfolds her legs and bends over to work her sandals loose, unbuckling the thin pink straps that are wrapped around her ankles. “What d’you think?”

Another pause. Beth gets the feeling that Daryl’s frowning. “Ain’t up to me. Ain’t my body.”

Okay. Her life’s going to hell in a handbasket, but Beth smiles for real this time. “You’re right. It ain’t. But it’s still your ass on the line if my family finds out that you’re the daddy.”

“Don’t I fuckin’ know it.” More silence, and Beth kicks her sandals off before flopping onto her back to wait it out. “S’my fault this happened, though. I ain’t about to run out on you if you decide to keep it.”

So. He’s not gonna make her do this on her own. One of the knots in Beth’s stomach unravels to hear it. Just the one, but it’s something.

“Thanks,” she says quietly.

Daryl snorts. “The hell’re you thankin’ me for?” he asks, just like he had outside of the clinic. “Can’t promise I’ll be much help, anyways. I don’t know shit about this stuff.”

“I dunno about that.” Beth rolls onto her side, knees folded against her chest again. Fetal position. “You’re great with Judy.”

Daryl scoffs. “Dunno about that,” he says. “An’ Judith’s a baby, anyways. She was already done cookin’ by the time I had anythin’ to do with her. I ain’t the one who held Lori’s hand through all the pregnancy shit. Rick’s the one who drove her to the OB/GYN. Not me.”

“You got a driver’s license and a truck. You can drive me anywhere I need to go.” Just like he drove her home when she was done babysitting Rick’s kids for the night, which was how they got into this mess in the first freaking place. “Got hands, too. I figure they can hold mine.”

More of that damn silence, and Beth wishes to God she could see the look on Daryl’s face, see if she could pick it apart and analyze it.

“That mean you wanna keep it?”

Beth doesn’t know how to interpret his tone. Can’t tell if he sounds upset or if he just wants to confirm a guess.  

“I dunno,” Beth says, meaning it. “I really don’t. Wish I had a better answer. Sorry.”

“You don’t got anythin’ to be sorry for, girl,” Daryl says, and Beth wishes he were here, not because she wants to see the look on his face—although she does—but because she’s in desperate need of a hug right about now. Daryl might not be very good at it, but she wants one from him, anyway. Him, specifically.

They sit there quietly for a few minutes, just breathing down the line and ticking up the wireless bill, but then Daryl starts to say, “Beth—”

Starts to say. Starts to, because Beth can hear footsteps coming down the hallway. She sits up so fast her head spins.  

“I gotta go.”

“What?”

“I gotta—someone’s comin’. My sister, I think. I gotta see what she wants. I’ll text you, okay?”

“…A’right.”

“Bye,” Beth whispers, then hangs up before he can say goodbye back. If he was even inclined to say it back. She saves his number in her address book before deleting their texts and then erasing her call history. Sets her phone down on her nightstand to charge before arranging herself casually on her bed and praying she doesn’t look as guilty as she feels.

There’s a knock on her door. She knows it’s her sister’s knock, just like she recognized Maggie’s footsteps, recognized that they were lighter than their father’s slow, heavy tread.

“Come in,” Beth calls, voice warbling. _Great job so far, Greene._

There’s a heavy pause that Beth can feel in the back of her teeth, and she should know from that alone that something’s up, but it’s not until the door swings open and she sees Maggie’s strained, white face that it really hits her.  

“Beth,” Maggie hisses, arms coiled tight across her chest, eyes sparking with a concerned kind of anger. “What the _hell_ did you do?”

Yeah.

She’s toast.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know. Poor Jimmy's always being used to make Daryl look good. I definitely don’t intend for him to be a total asshole, and there's always room for character development.
> 
> FURTHERMORE: I was overwhelmed and gratified by the response to Chapter 1. Y'all are sweet as hell, and while I'm still screaming at myself for starting another project, you all make my questionable life decisions worth it. Love y'all ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Saturday, July 13 th**

 

For a brief, wild moment, Beth seriously considers escaping through her bedroom window. They’re on the second floor, so she probably won’t survive the fall, but the potential risk-reward ratio’s looking mighty worth it from where Beth’s sitting.

“So,” Maggie says, and never before has Beth heard a single syllable so laden with sheer _foreboding_. “A funny thing happened on the way home.”

“You and Glenn get a citation for doin’ it in the backseat?” Beth hazards, because the only refuge she has left is in audacity.

Maggie’s lips pinch, cheeks hollowing. Okay, so. Looks like Beth’s stab at levity wasn’t much appreciated.

“I was droppin’ Glenn off at his place when I got a call from Jimmy McCune,” Maggie goes on, relentless, and Beth _freezes_.  

Yeah. The drop from her window to the ground’s looking more and more appealing by the second. “Didn’t know Jimmy had your number.”

Maggie finally steps farther into Beth’s room, as slow and inexorable as a glacier. “He sounded real upset, so I asked him if somethin’ bad had happened. And you know what he said to me?”

Beth scowls at her bare feet. Even her toes are clenched with the tension that’s strung her body tight as a bowstring. “I can guess,” she mumbles resentfully. She still can’t believe that Jimmy freaking _tattled on her._ What are they, five?

“You think this is funny?” Maggie barks, and Beth’s head snaps up, eyes wide as they fasten on Maggie’s face. Beth hasn’t seen her sister get this worked up since—

Well. Since.

Beth would clench her fists if they weren’t already scrunched tight on top of her thighs. As it is, she digs in harder with her nails, and the pinch of pain grounds her, at least a little bit.

“Do I look like I’m laughing?” Beth asks, a thread of anger finally working its way into her voice like floss through the eye of a sewing needle. “ _You’re_ the one who’s been draggin’ this out instead of gettin’ to the point. You like watchin’ me squirm or somethin’?”

The hard line of Maggie’s mouth softens, trembling a little. Looks like Beth struck a nerve.

Well, _good_. It’s mean and spiteful and ugly, but: _good_.

“Beth.” Maggie looks and sounds like all the fight’s gone out of her, and Beth immediately feels like the worst sister on the planet. “Tell me you were only there to pick up some free condoms. Just. Just don’t tell me you’re—”

It’s funny. Maggie and their momma weren’t blood, but Maggie could be Annette’s twin just now, Beth’s so irresistibly reminded of her mother.

Beth wonders how her mother would feel about this if she _were_ here. She’ll never know one way or the other, so it’s a pointless thing to wonder, but she can’t help but think on it anyway.

“I don’t know yet,” Beth admits. And because that feels disingenuous, she adds, “Probably, though. I took five at-home pregnancy tests, and they all. They all came out positive.”

Maggie presses her eyes shut. Her fingers clench and relax and clench again where they’re nestled against her crossed forearms. Vaguely, Beth wonders if she’s about to have a fit of the vapors.

She doesn’t. Eyes still sewn firmly shut, she breathes, “Dammit, Bethy. Did I not teach you _anythin’_ about keepin’ yourself safe—”

“I _was_ safe,” Beth retorts. “Just unlucky. Nothing’s a hundred percent. You know that.”

Maggie’s eyes fly open. Her mouth works soundlessly, cheeks curving and twitching like she wants to laugh. Beth gets it. She kind of wants to laugh, too, albeit hysterically.

Maggie doesn’t laugh, though. She shuts Beth’s bedroom door before coming over to sit next to Beth on the bed. And she waits.

Okay. Alright. _Fine._

Beth scuffs her toes against the floor, painted nails scraping the hardwood. “What else Jimmy tell you?”

“Said some redneck you were with threatened him an’ his buddies.”

Beth’s mouth goes all sour. “Jimmy an’ his _buddies_ were out to harass a bunch’a young girls. And that _redneck_ was a friend of Mr. Grimes’s. You remember Daryl? Daryl Dixon?”  

Maggie makes a vaguely affirmative noise and shifts to face Beth, pretzeling her legs on the bed. “That’s another thing. He says he didn’t get a good look, but Jimmy swore up an’ down that Mr. Grimes was with you, too.”

Beth’s shoulders curve defensively. She knows where this is going.

“Beth,” Maggie says, at once stern and way, _way_ too gentle, “tell me you didn’t _sleep_ with Rick Grimes—”

Beth knew where this was going, sure, but she still recoils. “What? _No_.”

“’Cause he’s a good man, and I get why you’d have a crush on him, but he’s old enough to be your father—” Maggie’s voice cuts out, then fades back in. “…You didn’t sleep with him?”

“Said I didn’t,” Beth mumbles, picking at a cuticle. “What, you don’t believe me?”

Maggie doesn’t answer right away, and Beth’s starting to worry that she really _doesn’t_ believe her when she says, “Nah. I believe you, Bethy. Other folks might not, though. You know how people talk.”

“Yeah, well, people suck,” Beth snaps. The phrasing’s a little juvenile, but it’s true. Some people just suck _ass_.

“What I wanna know,” Maggie says, a little haltingly, “is why you asked Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon to take you to the Planned Parenthood instead of _me_. You know. Your _big sister_. I get that you an’ Mr. Grimes are close—I love him, too—but—”

Oh. So on top of everything else, she’s hurt Maggie’s feelings. Great. Like she wasn’t already feeling shitty enough. Just add another shovel of the stuff to the compost pile, then.

“Was takin’ the tests at Mr. Grimes’s house,” she says, picking harder at her cuticle. “He came home early. Could tell somethin’ was botherin’ me, and you know how he gets when he’s got a hunch.”

“Man’s got eyes like a hawk’s,” Maggie agrees, and a smile flickers across Beth’s face before fading away again.  

“Yeah, well. I asked him to drive me to the Planned Parenthood. He did, and, well. You know the rest.”

“Guess I do,” says Maggie. She folds her fingers over Beth’s, puts her agitated picking to a stop. “You went shopping for pregnancy tests by yourself?”

Beth nods.

“You should’ve asked me to do it for you.”

“Why? So you could freak out on me like you just did?” Beth sees the hurt in Maggie’s eyes and hates herself for it, but, dammit. Maggie’s already proven Beth right, so she doesn’t get to look at her like that.  

“I’m your sister,” Maggie repeats, like Beth needs the reminder. “I just wish you could’ve trusted me to do whatever you thought was best.”

Beth deflates like a popped balloon. “I do trust you,” she says, even if her actions speak to the contrary. “I just. I didn’t want you to get worked up over nothin’. I mean. If it turned out to be nothin’.”

But it’s not nothing. It’s a whole lot of something, and she might not have gotten the test results back yet, but part of her just knows. Even if she hadn’t taken five at-home tests, she’d still know.

She’s pregnant. Right now, a little bundle of cells that’s part her and part Daryl is dividing rapidly inside of her, and she doesn’t know what she’s gonna do about it. 

Maggie lets go of Beth’s fingers and wraps her hand around her wrist—not the wrist Rick held, but the one that’s laden down with bracelets. The one with the scar. Maggie’s thumb strokes that scar, or what little of it she can with the bracelets in the way.

“What d’you wanna do about it?” Maggie asks.

Beth gives her the same answer she gave Daryl. “I dunno yet. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry about that,” Maggie says, and if there’s an implication in there that Beth should be sorry for some _other_ things, well. Beth elects to ignore it. “You gonna tell me who the daddy is?”

Beth tugs her wrist out of Maggie’s grip, flips her palm over, and intertwines their fingers. She’s already thought this over, and it might not be the answer Maggie’s looking for, but it’s the one she’s gonna get.

“Not yet,” Beth says, and Maggie doesn’t immediately get all huffy, so. That’s a good sign. “Not until I know for sure. You’ll be the first person I tell when I do. Promise.”

Well. The first person after Daryl, anyway.

Maggie squeezes Beth’s hand, this side of painful. “Tell me it wasn’t bad, at least. Tell me that this guy didn’t—didn’t pressure you or—”

A laugh catches in Beth’s throat, because nothing could be further from the truth. She can’t conceive of any universe in which _Daryl Dixon_ set out to aggressively seduce _her_.

Mostly it was the other way around.

“Nah,” she says, resting her head on Maggie’s shoulder. The eyelet lace on her sleeve scratches Beth’s cheek. “I came on to him.”

Maggie doesn’t say anything, but Beth knows her sister better than she knows herself, and the quality of her silence is…well. Beth would venture to call it _disbelieving_.

Beth laughs for real this time. “What? You surprised or somethin’?”  

“A little,” Maggie admits. “I mean, kind of. You were always so shy, s’all. I’m havin’ a hard time picturing you comin’ onto _anybody_.”

Yeah, well. It had to be Beth, because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be _Daryl_. _Somebody_ had to piss or get off the pot.  

Maggie sighs and loops an arm around Beth’s neck. Squeezes her close until Beth’s nose is full of the smell of Maggie’s fading perfume.

“When’d this happen, anyway?” Maggie asks, breath gusting along Beth’s scalp. “Am I allowed to ask?”

“You can do the math,” Beth says. “Happened last month.”

The house had been empty, that night. Maggie was staying over at Glenn’s, and their dad was in Savannah for an AMVA convention. The house had been empty, and Beth had invited Daryl inside. She’d taken his big, rough hand in hers and drawn him up onto the porch and through the front door, and he’d followed her like he was in a trance.

“…And it’s not Mr. Grimes’s.”

Beth grimaces. “No, Maggie. It’s not Mr. Grimes’s.”

Maggie huffs. “Well. Guess that’s somethin’.”

“I’ll tell you who the daddy is,” Beth promises. “Swear I will. Just not yet.”

Even then, Beth won’t tell Maggie everything. She won’t tell her that Daryl skimmed his callused fingertips along her cheekbones like he was touching spun glass. She won’t tell Maggie that Daryl isn’t circumcised. She _definitely_ won’t tell Maggie that his dick was thick enough to make Beth’s cunt burn just a little from the stretch of it.

Beth turns her face against Maggie’s throat to hide her blush. Yeah. Some things are just for her.

Maggie hugs her tighter. “We’ll get through this. Me and you. I won’t let you do this alone.”  

She sounds like Rick. Like Daryl.

She’s real lucky, is Beth Greene. In some respects, anyway.

“Yeah,” Beth says, voice cracking a little. “I know. Thanks.”

She doesn’t have to do any of this alone. She doesn’t, so she won’t.

Beth thinks on that for the rest of the day, and when night falls and it’s time to go to bed, she picks her phone up from her nightstand and scrolls to the newest entry in her address book. Types out and deletes the same message three times before finally sending it into the ether.

_Can you do me a favor?_

 

* * *

 

**Sunday, July 14 th**

 

Of course Daryl agrees to do Beth a favor. Girl could ask him to commit fucking seppuku or something, and he’d just say, _Sure. Would you like me to do it with an actual katana?_ Because Rick’s neighbor Michonne owns a katana, and Daryl thinks he could convince her to let him borrow it.

He doesn’t even ask her to clarify what this favor is. Just says, _Can I bring my dog?_ And she says yeah, and that’s how Daryl ends up here, idling in his big ugly truck in front of her pretty little farmhouse, feeling like an interloper.

Jesus Christ, he’s been here before. Has driven her home from Rick’s more times than he can count. What’s the big fucking deal?

The big deal is that she wasn’t _pregnant_ before, dumbass.

Right.

That.

She assured him that her father and sister wouldn’t be home, but he still flinches a little when the front door swings open. He relaxes when he sees that it’s Beth, but then he just tenses up all over again because what the actual _fuck_ is he doing?

Beth waves when she sees him, and Daryl lifts four fingers off the steering wheel to sorta kinda wave back.

How she came to the conclusion that she wanted to have sex with his socially awkward ass is anyone’s guess.

Dog perks up when he sees Beth, and Daryl presses a gentle hand to his muzzle to hold him back. “You best mind your manners, boy.”

In retrospect, he can’t say for sure whether he was talking to the dog or to himself.

“Doors’re unlocked,” Daryl calls to Beth through the open window, and she lets herself in. Shit, fuck. Should he have gotten out of the truck and opened the door for her? Given her a boost into the cab? She’s not far along at all, but she’s still pregnant. Pregnant from _him_.

Jesus Christ, he still can’t wrap his mind around it.

“Howdy,” says Beth, and before Daryl can reply—or not reply—she twists in her seat and gives a little gasp like she’s surprised. Which is weird, because he told her ahead of time that he’d be bringing his dog. “And look at _you_. Aren’t you the cutest puppy to ever puppy? Yes, you are.”

Dog just about dies from sheer bliss, wiggling his butt and thumping his tail, bumping his forehead against Beth’s when she scratches his ears. Fucking idiot.

“He ain’t no puppy,” Daryl grumbles.

“Sure he is!” Beth retorts, still talking in that goopy voice some people use on animals. She braves Dog’s chronically stank-ass breath to press her face all up against his as she croons, “All dogs are puppies. Yes, they are. What’s your name, puppy?”

“Dog,” says Daryl, and Dog’s ears swivel in his direction. “His name’s Dog.”

Beth gives Daryl a funny look. “You named your dog…Dog.”

“Couldn’t think of a name,” Daryl mumbles, hands worrying at the steering wheel. “Then he got used to me callin’ him ‘Dog,’ an’ it was too late. Didn’t wanna confuse him.”

“Well, it’s accurate, anyway,” Beth says, and finally lets up loving on Dog to buckle herself in. She bends at the waist to dig through the backpack she dropped in the footwell as Daryl puts the truck in drive and swings a U-turn. “You want one? I got more in my bag.”

Daryl glances at her sidelong; she’s got a granola bar clutched in her hands, half unwrapped.

“Nah,” he lies. He skipped breakfast on account of being too anxious to eat. “I’m good.”

Beth doesn’t say anything, but there are rustling sounds and the crinkle of plastic, and then a brightly-packaged granola bar’s being shoved under his nose.

Daryl nearly drives the truck off the fucking road. “ _Shit_ , girl. Get that thing outta my fuckin’ face.”

He immediately feels like the world’s biggest asshole, swearing at the girl he got pregnant, but Beth doesn’t sound at all hurt when she says, “I’ll get it outta your face if you stop actin’ like a stubborn ass and eat the damn thing.”

Daryl squeezes the steering wheel so hard his knuckles pop. Peels one hand off the wheel to snatch hold of the stupid fucking granola bar, unwrap it, and tear off a bite.  

Dog tries to nose at the thing, and Daryl nudges him away with a raised shoulder. “Bad dog.”

“You never told me you had a dog,” says Beth.

Daryl finishes off his breakfast and uses his thumbnail to pick granola out from between his teeth. “You never asked.”

“Guess I didn’t,” Beth says, collecting Daryl’s wrapper before he can do anything about it and stuffing it into her backpack.

They’re almost at the end of the road, now, and Beth’s gonna have to pick a direction soon. “Where we headed, anyways?”

Beth rattles off an address, and Daryl nods. Shoves on his turn signal and goes left.

Beth fiddles with the radio and Daryl lets her, not complaining about her taste in music even when she settles on a station that’s playing some seriously grating bubblegum pop. Better than Rick’s godawful Tim McGraw albums, anyway.

And Daryl should seriously be watching the road, especially after he nearly drove them into a ditch, but it’s like his eyeballs have a mind of their own, because they keep stealing glances at Beth while Dog pants in his ear between rounds of sticking his head out the window.

She’s wearing another sundress, but this one’s yellow rather than white. The dress’s spaghetti straps crisscross with her white bra straps, and the skirt pools loosely in the little V of space between her slightly-parted legs. It’s rucked far enough up her thighs that Daryl can catch glimpses of white skin where the summer sun hasn’t touched her.

Swearing internally, Daryl takes a turn a little faster than he should—Beth has to reach up and grab the oh-shit handle—and then blurts, “Where your daddy and sister at, anyways?”

“Church,” Beth says, like it should be obvious.

Daryl guesses it should be. Was a stupid fucking question anyway, but he doesn’t shut up. No, his mouth, much like his eyes, has disconnected from his brain, so he goes, “You didn’t wanna go with ’em?”

Daryl steals another furtive glance. Sees Beth pleating her skirt between her fingers. “Don’t go as much as I used to. I figure God doesn’t mind, s’long as I’m still a believer.”

Daryl doesn’t really believe in God, but if he did, he’d wonder if God could forgive him for knocking up a teenager. For wrapping those white thighs around his hips and fucking her missionary until he couldn’t stand looking at her blissed-out face anymore. For flipping her onto all fours and mounting her like a dog. For making her shriek. For making her come.

Daryl shudders, stomach heating up and twisting sideways, all at once slightly turned on and slightly nauseated.

Christ Almighty, he’s sick. He’s _sick_.

He’s also thankfully pulling up to the address Beth gave him. He parallel parks in front of a house with whitewashed siding and powder-blue shutters but doesn’t shut off the engine.

Beth’s already got her hand on the door. She looks at him over her shoulder. “You comin’?”

Uh. What? “Thought you just needed a ride.”

“Well, sure,” Beth says. “But I need you to come with me, too. Please?”

Daryl exchanges a look with Dog. Comes to terms with the fact that he’d do anything up to and including first degree murder if only Beth Greene looked at him in _that_ particular way and said _please_.

He can practically _hear_ Merle imitating the sound of a whip crack.

Daryl twists around and picks Dog’s water dish up off the floorboards. Sets it down on the backseat, fishes his lukewarm bottle of water out of the cupholder, and pours his boy a drink.

“Will he be okay in here for a couple of minutes?” Beth asks, stroking Dog’s ears as he bends his head to take a sloppy drink.

Hell. Like he wasn’t already stupid for the girl. Now she has to go and love his damn dog. 

“He’ll be fine,” Daryl says gruffly. “He’s got water, and the windows’re rolled down. He gets too hot, he can always jump out and bite me on the ass.”

“Alright,” Beth says, giving him a smile that he badly wants to return but doesn’t. She shoves open the passenger side door and hops down onto the sidewalk, phone clutched in her hand, and Daryl gets out too after giving Dog’s head one last pat. Beth leads the way up the little flagstone path that cuts through the whitewashed house’s tiny front yard, and Daryl trails after her like a hulking shadow.

Beth knocks on the blue door, perfunctory, then rings the doorbell a couple of times. And waits.

Daryl shifts from foot to foot as the seconds stretch into minutes. “Whose house is this, anyways—?”

The house of someone who has impeccable timing, apparently, because just as Daryl’s asking the question, the door swings open to reveal none other than the ex-boyfriend. Hell’s his name?  

Oh. Right. Jimmy.

Jimmy, whose eyes look near about fit to pop out of his skull and land on the concrete stoop.

“Hey, Jimmy,” Beth says with a weaponized kind of cheerfulness. “Heard you’ve been tellin’ folks that Rick Grimes got me pregnant.”

Ah. So the kid’s been running his mouth. Explains why Beth insisted on bringing Daryl along.

“Uh,” Jimmy says intelligently.  

“I don’t much appreciate that at all, Jimmy,” Beth goes on, smile sharp enough to cut a man. Daryl wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of that smile. No, siree. “Mr. Grimes and I have a strictly platonic relationship, for one thing. And even if we didn’t, that’d be our business and no one else’s.”

And, honest to Christ, the first thing out of Jimmy’s mouth is, “Then whose is it?”  

Beth’s mouth puckers. “Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“Is it Zach’s?”

 _Who_?

Beth clenches her fists. “Zach _went away to school in Nebraska_ , Jimmy.”

Jimmy stares at his toes, curling and uncurling in his off-white socks. “Y’all could’a been havin’ Skype sex or somethin’,” he mumbles.

 _What_.

“ _People can’t get pregnant from Skype sex_ , Jimmy!”

The hell are they teaching kids in school these days?

Jimmy gives Daryl a cagey look, and Daryl can see the question in his eyes. Can guess what he’s just about dying to ask. So Daryl throws his shoulders back a little. Scowls down his nose at the kid, even though Jimmy’s just about the same height as him, and kind of. Looms.

It’s looking more and more like Daryl will actually have to kick some cornfed teenager’s yeehaw ass. Fucking great.

Jimmy goes all white around the eyes, then turns a pleading look on Beth. Which is frankly stupid of him.   

“Beth,” Jimmy starts, but Beth’s not having it. She shoves her finger in the kid’s face, and he snaps his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.

“Now, you listen to me, James McCune,” Beth grinds out. “I dunno how many people you an’ your stupid friends have told, and I don’t _wanna_ know—but if this gets back to my father before I get a chance to tell him myself, I will have. Your. _Hide_. Y’hear me?”  

Jimmy straightens up a little. “Your daddy’s got a right to know.”

“The only people who’ve got a right to know _anythin’_  are me an’ the guy who knocked me up.” Daryl tries not to look too guilty when she says that. “Now, you won’t breathe a damn _word_ of this to anyone else, you got that?”

Jimmy sticks his chin out. And then he says the last thing you should ever say to someone who’s threatening you.

“Or what?”

Daryl looms harder, and Jimmy shrinks into the doorjamb, but Beth’s hand comes up. She taps Daryl lightly on the chest, and he backs off. Doesn’t much like it, but he backs off.

“Or I’ll tell your mother about that blunt you smoked last month,” Beth says, triumphant. “ _That’s_ what.”

Daryl almost laughs because, _seriously_? But that would ruin Beth’s moment, so he bites his tongue.  

Jimmy actually fucking _blanches_. “You don’t got any proof.”

Beth wiggles her phone at him. “Oh, don’t I?”

Jimmy eyes the phone. Eyes Beth. Visibly weighs his chances.

Slumps.

“Fine,” he mumbles, “whatever.”

Beth nods. “Alright. Thank you kindly for your cooperation.”

Jimmy makes an impatient noise. “Can y’all just get off my property before one’a the neighbors spots that redneck’a yours and calls the police?” Jimmy’s look gets mean. “Or don’t. I’m good either way.”

This kid is damn lucky that Daryl doesn’t know for sure whether he’s eighteen or not. Because if he _did_ know for sure, he’d’ve yanked Jimmy’s lungs inside out by now.

Beth just huffs and turns neatly on her heel. “C’mon, Daryl,” she says, and, feeling a bit like a stupidly loyal dog, Daryl follows her.

“Beth,” Jimmy calls, and Beth doesn’t even turn around. Just sighs.

“What, Jimmy?”

“…Hope things work out for you.”

Beth doesn’t answer him. Just shakes her head and marches the rest of the way to the truck.

Daryl doesn’t say anything until they’ve pulled off of Jimmy’s street. What he does end up saying is pretty inadequate, but it’s all he’s got.

“Y’alright?”

He’s watching Beth out of the corner of his eye, so he sees the sad little smile that curls her lips as she absently pets Dog on the head. “Yeah. I’m fine as I can be, I guess.” Then, “Sorry for not warnin’ you ahead of time.”

 _Sorry_? _She’s_ sorry?

Daryl shrugs. “Didn’t mind.”

“Still.”

Daryl should probably just let the silence settle in a cloud around them, but he’s gotta ask. “You really got a picture in your phone of that kid smokin’ a blunt?”

The smile gets a little less sad, a little more crafty. “Nah. But _he_ doesn’t know that.”

Daryl huffs a laugh, and that seems to make Beth happy. Maybe he should do it more often, then.

“You need me to drop you off someplace?”

He’s both terrified and hopeful that she’ll say that she wants to go someplace with _him_.

But she shakes her head. “Nah. Thanks, though. I just wanna go home. Get back before Maggie and my dad do.”

Right. Sure. Daryl doesn’t deflate or anything, because that would be fucking stupid and also criminally pathetic. He just points his truck in the right direction and rests more of his weight on the gas.   

When he’s pulled up to her house, Beth nuzzles her face against Dog’s one last time before turning to Daryl. Wildly, Daryl wonders if she’ll nuzzle _his_ face.

What. The _fuck_ is wrong with him?

“Thanks,” Beth says, too earnest. “I really appreciate the help.”

Daryl attempts to become one with the upholstery. “Didn’t do nothin’.”

Beth’s smile gets crafty again. “Sure, you did. Near about had Jimmy pissin’ his pants.”

Well. At least he’s good for something.

“Be less than what the little fucker deserves,” Daryl mumbles, and Beth _laughs_ , high and bright like her singing voice. Daryl remembers that laugh. Remembers the way it would settle in his stomach and warm him from the inside out like good whiskey.

But then her laughter dies, taking the warmth in Daryl’s stomach with it. “So I’ll, uh. I’ll text you when I get the results back. For the, uh. The blood test.”

Right. Daryl forgot that the only reason Beth’s spending any time with him at all is because he (probably, definitely) knocked her up.

“Mhm,” is all he says.

“Alright.” Beth eases herself out of the cab but doesn’t shut the door right away. “See you around?”

Daryl just flashes her a thumbs up, and she smiles one last time before shutting the passenger side door and heading for the farmhouse.  

Dog licks Daryl’s shoulder, but Daryl’s too busy wondering if he just stroked out or something to push him and his drooling mouth away.

A thumbs up. He gave her a _thumbs up_? _What kind of damn fool idiot???_

Daryl’s got shit to do. And he’ll get around to doing it. But first, he knocks his forehead against the steering wheel and indulges in a long, pained groan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Live footage of the inside of Daryl's brain.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ahrBOvz1jzA)


	4. Chapter 4

**Wednesday, July 17 th**

 

Beth locks herself in her bedroom and shoots Daryl a text before speed dialing Maggie’s number. Maggie’s working today, but she should be on her lunchbreak right about now, so Beth isn’t super worried about bothering her while she’s busy.

Besides. Even if Maggie _is_ busy, Beth’s confident that she’ll make time for _this_.  

It’s not like Maggie will be surprised, Beth tells herself firmly. It’s not like they weren’t prepared for this. Not like they weren’t _expecting_ it.

Maggie picks up on the second ring. “You get your results back yet?”

“What,” says Beth. “No ‘hi’?”

“Hi,” says Maggie. “You get your results back or what?”

Beth dug her old teddy bear out of the cedar chest for moral support, and now he’s listing sideways in her lap. His green fur is faded, and his glass eyes are dangling by a couple of threads. She should probably dig out the sewing kit and patch him up some before he falls to pieces.

“Beth?”

Right. She’s in the middle of an important conversation, here—possibly one of the most important conversations of her life. Now’s not the time to let her mind wander, and poor Maggie must be on tenterhooks, besides.

Beth hugs Bangles the Bear to her stomach and says, “Yeah. I mean, yeah, I got my results back.”

“And?”

Beth strokes trembling fingers through Bangles’s soft fur. “You alone?”

“I’m on lunchbreak. Sittin’ in my car.” Now that Maggie’s mentioned it, Beth thinks she can make out the faint hum of Maggie’s car radio, tuned in to a contemporary country station. “We oughta be good, ’less one of my coworkers planted a bug on me.” 

Maggie’s trying to be funny—trying to distract Beth with a weak joke, and Beth appreciates it. Really, she does.

It’s just too bad that it doesn’t really work.

Beth’s phone buzzes.

“Sorry, hold up a second.” Beth pulls her phone away from her ear to read Daryl’s response, then has to read it a second time at a slower pace when the words blur in front of her eyes. Breathing shakily out, Beth composes a message and hits send before resuming her conversation with Maggie.

“Sorry,” Beth repeats. “The test was, um. The test was positive.” Beth feels detached from her own words even as she says them, like someone else is using her as a mouthpiece and speaking through her. “Good news is, I don’t got any STDs.” 

“Yeah,” Maggie says faintly. “That’s…good.”

Maggie doesn’t add anything to that, and Beth makes no effort to fill the silence. She just hugs Bangles harder while she tries to make out the lyrics to the song playing on the radio.

“…You gonna tell me whose it is?”

Beth’s stomach lurches—is it too early on for morning sickness, or is her anxiety just playing hell with her guts?—but her voice comes out flat and almost _blasé_ when she says, “It’s Daryl Dixon’s.”

And then she holds her phone about a foot away from her ear. And she waits.

“GOD _FUCKING_ DAMMIT, BETH!”

Beth kind of wants to hang up, but that’ll only bring an in-person reckoning down on her head once Maggie gets home from work, so she bravely brings her phone back to her ear and says, “You might wanna calm down. What if you scare the locals?”

“This. Isn’t. _Funny.”_

Beth sighs and drops her forehead into her waiting palm, wincing at the sting of impact. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“I can’t _believe_ you, Beth! Daryl _Dixon_? Ain’t he Mr. Grimes’s age?”

“Think he might be a little bit younger, actually,” Beth says, as if that makes a scrap of difference.  

Clearly it doesn’t make any difference to Maggie, because she still sounds about two seconds away from an aneurism when she says, “God, I’m surprised he _didn’t_ give you crabs, the way he looks. How long’s this been goin’ on for, anyways? Huh? How long’ve the two’ve you been—God, don’t _tell_ me he even _thought_ about touchin’ you before you turned eighteen, because I swear to _God_ , Beth, I own a shotgun, an’ I will Annie fuckin’ Oakley his dick _right off_.”

Maggie could be making an idle threat, is the thing. Could be that she’s letting her temper get the best of her and doesn’t actually mean what she says.

Beth’s not willing to take that chance.  

“You leave him be,” Beth snaps, overcome with a hot surge of protectiveness on Daryl’s behalf, as if he needs her protecting. “We only did it the once, an’ he only started lookin’ me in the eye a couple’a months ago.”

“…Beth.” Maggie’s using her condescending big sister voice, and that’s annoying, but at least she’s mostly stopped sounding like she’s determined to go to jail for one count of first-degree murder. “Even _you_ gotta admit that this looks bad. Some middle-aged man knocks up a teenager fresh outta high school—”

“He ain’t middle aged,” Beth mumbles.

“He’s damn well close enough. Hell. What’re you gonna tell Dad?”

Beth’s phone buzzes with another text, but she doesn’t look at it right away. A hot pressure’s building up behind her eyeballs, and she can’t yet tell if she’s gonna blink the impending tears away or indulge in a long, hard crying jag.

“Depends, I guess. Don’t think I’m gonna tell him unless I decide to keep it.”

Maggie’s sigh rattles down the line. “You realize you’re procrastinating?”

“…Uh-huh.”

“Can’t procrastinate for too long with this kinda thing.”

“I know.”

“Said I’d go along with whatever you thought was best, so I won’t tell Dad before you do. Promise.”

Beth blinks hard, and the tears quiver out of her eyes and run down her cheeks. “Thanks.”

“Bethy? You okay, sweetie?”

Beth scrubs at her face, smearing tears all across her knuckles. She wipes her hand dry on her bedspread and says, “I think so. I just. I’m tryin’ to—” Beth lets her breath even out before taking it from the top. “Don’t kill Daryl. I don’t want you to go to jail.”

“Don’t gotta kill him to make him suffer,” Maggie says venomously, and Beth stutters a nervous laugh.  

“I’m a consenting adult, Maggie. He didn’t hurt me or anythin’. He was actually kinda…sweet.”

“Ugh! Please, spare me the gory details.”

“ _You_ told me all about your first time with Glenn, up to and including the size of his penis, so it’s only fair—”

“ _Glenn_ isn’t middle-aged trailer trash.”

Beth frowns. “Don’t be such a _snob_ , Maggie.”

“I ain’t bein’ a _snob_ —” Maggie makes a frustrated noise before changing her tack. “You tell him about it? About the test results?”

“Yeah. He’s gettin’ off work for the day in a little while, so I was gonna go over there an’ see him.”

“…You want me to drive you? I can put in for sick time.”

“Nah,” Beth says carefully. “I’ll take the bus.”

“You’re just afraid I’ll punch him in the nuts and cause a scene, aren’t you?”

Beth smiles wryly at Bangles, getting the sense that he’s commiserating with her. “Somethin’ like that.”

“Fine,” Maggie says, even if her tone suggests that it’s not fine at all. “You be careful.”

“Mhm, I will be.”

But Maggie doesn’t seem ready to hang up yet. “Now I know why he tagged along with you an’ Mr. Grimes to the Planned Parenthood.”  

“Actually, Mr. Grimes was the one who asked Daryl to come along. Figured it wouldn’t look like he’d been the one to knock me up if they were both there.”

“So much for that, huh?”

Thinking of Jimmy and the things he said and did doesn’t piss Beth off as much as she expected it to. Guess she’s too full of other conflicting emotions for the anger to really come through. “Yeah. So much for that.”

“You said you came on to him? How the hell’d you pull that off? He just seems so…I dunno. Closed off.”  

Beth threw her curtains open to let the summer sunshine into her room, but she doesn’t think it’s the noonday sunlight that’s making her cheeks burn. “Thought you didn’t want the gory details.”

“I mean, not the _gory_ -gory details, but—guess I’m just a little curious. Y’know. In a morbid sorta way.”

Beth’s cheeks are so hot, they feel sunburned. But a curious Maggie is better than a wrathful Maggie, so she admits in a rush, “He drove me home from sittin’ at Rick’s while Daddy was at that AMVA convention in Savannah. I invited him inside for a Coke, an’ then I sat in his lap and flashed him my underwear.” She hastens to add, “But I didn’t plan on it or anythin’. It just kinda. Happened.”

“…Well.” Maggie sounds like she’s choking on something. Possibly hysterical laughter. “Guess that’s one way to go about it.”

Not to be dramatic, but Beth wants to set herself on fire. “Guess so.” 

Maggie clears her throat. Sounds heroically composed when she says, “You gotta go now?”

“Soon, yeah.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Beth hangs up first, then brings up her message log.

_I got the results back. Can I come talk to you?_

_I get off work in 1 hour. Was it positive?_

_Yeah_.

Daryl’s last message was just a street address and the vaguely familiar name of an auto repair shop. Which is helpful, but also…not.

Is he upset? He’s probably upset. God, why _wouldn’t_ he be?

Beth lets the phone drop onto her bedspread and hugs Bangles tight, stroking the thin fur between his ears and wishing that Daryl’s dog was here for her to pet.

Bangles was a birthday gift from her mom, and Beth always planned on passing him down to her own babies, when she had them. Because she’d always wanted to have them—just not at eighteen.

But plans change all the time, don’t they? And this wouldn’t be a _change_ , exactly. Just an adjustment.

A _major_ adjustment, but still.

Beth holds Bangles up in front of her face. Looks him in his glass eyes.

Feeling a little silly, Beth says, “Wish me luck, buddy,” before kissing Bangles on his worn velvet nose.

She props Bangles up against her pillows, then climbs out of bed to search for her shoes.

 

* * *

 

The garage Daryl works at is situated at the very end of a strip mall, and most of its parking spaces are filled. That’s good. It’s nice that they’re getting business.

The little lobby has a desk behind a short counter in one corner. There’s a door behind the desk, and then another door a few feet over from the first; both are painted a warm shade of blue. The waiting area is little more than a collection of stiff plastic chairs and a clunky old television set on a low-slung plywood table.

Beth squeezes her backpack’s straps and approaches the desk. The guy sitting behind it dwarfs his little wheeled office chair.

He’s wearing a wool hat. Indoors. Is that allowed?

 _Focus_.   

“Um. Excuse me, sir?”

The guy tears his eyes away from his computer monitor and fixes Beth with a warmly professional smile. “Hey, there. How can I help you?”

Beth folds her arms on the counter and leans in close, hoping that her hushed voice doesn’t carry to the customers sitting less than ten feet back from the desk. “Uh, hi. Sorry, I’m not here to get my car worked on, I’m—I’m here to see Daryl Dixon?”

Wool Hat’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes widen a fraction.

“You Beth Greene?” he asks, and Beth nods hesitantly, like she’s got Hollywood amnesia and isn’t sure of her own identity.  

Guess Daryl told the receptionist to expect her.

The receptionist’s smile gets a little wider, a little more genuine and a little less polished. “Daryl’s due to clock out pretty soon. You wanna have a seat, or would you rather wait out in your car?”

“Uh. In here. I, um, I took a bus.”

Wool Hat nods, and Beth murmurs a thank-you before taking the only open seat. She smushes her legs tightly together so they don’t knock into either of her neighbors, crosses her arms over her stomach, and settles in to watch _Tom and Jerry_.

The episode’s halfway over when the door farthest from the desk swings open, letting in a swell of noise—clanking metal, loud voices, an electric hum. Beth looks away from the TV screen, and her heart gives an anxious little thump when she sees Daryl stride into the waiting room in his everyday clothes with a lunchbox dangling from his fingers. His eyes are already on Beth, and they stay on her even as he stops by the desk to say something in an undertone to Wool Hat, who shrugs and smiles.

Beth jumps out of her seat without warning, startling the guy sitting to her left. She gives him an apologetic smile before making her way over to Daryl—only to stop in her tracks and hover on the periphery. Daryl and Wool Hat are still discussing something, and Beth doesn’t want to interrupt them.

And maybe she’s procrastinating a little, too.  

There’s movement to Beth’s left, and she turns her head and watches as the door Daryl came through eases back open. There’s a small cluster of men in navy coveralls standing in the open doorway, peering out into the waiting room. One of them, a guy with bright red hair and a handlebar mustache, catches Beth’s eye and winks.

Beth looks away quickly, shaken by the uncharacteristically _violent_ urge to march on up to that guy and clock him one.

Is it too early on for pregnancy hormones to start screwing with her moods, or is she just that stressed out?

“Hey.”

Daryl somehow managed to sneak up on her even though she was facing in his direction. His expression gives nothing away, but he looks a little pale. Could be the fluorescent lights, but Beth doesn’t think so.

“Hiya,” she mumbles, cheeks coming up hot. Dammit, they’re still _staring_ —don’t they have any work to do?

Daryl cranes a look over his shoulder, then cusses under his breath.

“Goddammit—” Daryl raises his voice all of a sudden, probably startling the hell out of the customers in the waiting area. “The fuck y’all lookin’ at?”

“Was just curious about your lady friend, is all,” says the redhead.

“Mind your fuckin’ business, assholes. This ain’t community theater.”

Wool Hat doesn’t even look up from his computer monitor when he says, “Company time, boys.”

The redhead gives Beth one last wolfish smile, then wisely yanks the door shut before Daryl can storm over there and pop his head off his neck like a Ken doll’s.

Daryl’s already heading for the exit. “C’mon,” he says to Beth, then mumbles something that sounds like “Fuckin’ clown factory.”

“Y’all have a nice rest of your day, now,” Wool Hat calls after them.

“Thank you, sir,” Beth says politely. Daryl just snorts.  

Daryl waits until they’ve stepped out into the muggy afternoon before he looks at Beth sidelong and says, “Sorry ’bout them assholes. Should’a figured they’d pull somethin’ like that.”

It warms Beth right around the middle, that Daryl’s taking her side unequivocally instead of trying to be a bro to his coworkers. Feeling charitable, she says, “It’s alright. They didn’t really do anythin’ to me. And the receptionist—sorry, I didn’t catch his name—he was real nice.”

“Tyreese ain’t no receptionist. Him an’ his sister own this joint.”  

“Oh." Guess that explains the hat. You can wear what you want when you're your own boss. "Then why was he manning the front desk?”  

Daryl starts walking, and Beth scrambles to keep up. “Our old receptionist quit an’ moved out west to ‘find himself,’ whatever the fuck that means. Think he just wanted to be closer to Burning Man.”

“So Tyreese’s been covering the front desk while he looks for a replacement?”  

“Him an’ Sasha, yeah.” Daryl halts midstride, and Beth nearly runs right into him. “You got a ride home?”

Beth scuffs the toe of one boot across the asphalt. “Actually…thing is, I was wonderin’ if I could go home with you?”

Daryl turns to look at her. The expression on his face isn’t encouraging, so Beth rushes to say, “It’s just, I wanna talk some things over? An’ I don’t wanna have this conversation in public.”  

Daryl sinks his teeth into his lower lip. “Could talk in my truck.”

Beth firms her shoulders. “I’d really rather not.”

Daryl stops chewing on his lip only to start biting at his thumbnail. “My brother oughta be gettin’ home soon.”  

“The brother Mr. Grimes arrested?”

“Mhm.”

“How soon is soon?”

“I dunno. He’s doin’ community service. Y’know, for parole. So I guess…Iunno. ’Nother hour or two.”

“Guess we oughta get there soon, then.”

Daryl tears a hangnail off with his teeth, and Beth wraps her fingers around his wrist. Pulls his hand away from his mouth and holds it against her sternum.

“Please?” She debates batting her eyelashes at him but decides that that would be laying it on just a touch too thick.

Daryl shuts his eyes. Sighs hard though his nose.  

Squints at her and grumbles, “Jesus Christ. Fine.”  

Beth squeezes his hand, once, before letting him go.  

She leads the way to his truck.

 

* * *

 

Daryl’s feeling defensive even before he pulls up to his trailer. It’s not like he genuinely thinks that Beth’s gonna turn her nose up at him—she’s already proven that she’s not the type—but he takes one look at his double wide with its yard that’s more dirt than grass and feels his ears coming up hot.

The fuck’s his problem? The place is clean, both inside and out, and they don’t even have empty cans of beer lying around the place like they used to, on account of Merle’s parole. Daryl just scrubbed the bathroom spotless last Friday, so even if Beth has to piss or something, she shouldn’t be confronted with anything too horrifying.

Beth hops out of the cab as soon as Daryl puts the truck in park, and he follows her at a more sedate pace. Her eyes are wide, but not with thinly veiled horror.

She’s staring at his front deck.  

“I didn’t know you had a cat. You got a whole zoo you haven’t been tellin’ me about or what?”

Beth edges closer, and the cat on Daryl’s deck startles and takes off into the bushes in a streak of black and white and orange.

“Ain’t my cat,” Daryl grumbles as he mounts the now-unoccupied deck, keys jingling in his fist. “Damn thing’s been hangin’ ’round here for the last couple’a weeks. Think he’s made friends with Dog.”

“She.”

Daryl pauses, housekey plugged halfway into the lock. “What?”

Beth chews on her bottom lip. It looks a little like she’s biting back a smile. “I said, _she._ Calicos are usually girls.”

Well, that explains why its piss doesn’t stink as bad as Daryl was expecting. “Whatever,” he says, twisting the key and shoving the front door open.

Beth follows him inside, and he pretends not to notice her smiling at the half-empty dish of cat kibble sitting by his front door.

Daryl drops his keys and his lunchbox on the kitchen table, bracing himself for Dog’s inevitable outpouring of sloppy affection. And right on cue, Dog jumps out of his bed, nails clicking on the kitchen tile as he first circles Daryl’s legs, then jumps up to put his paws on Beth’s shoulders. Beth stumbles a little under his weight but reaches up to obligingly pet him between the ears.

“Down,” Daryl snaps. “You think she wants your nasty-ass breath in her face? Dumbass.”

“It’s fine,” Beth says, smiling fondly at Dog as he obediently falls back on his haunches. Daryl snaps his fingers and points, and Dog trots back to his bed and settles down. For now.

“You eat today?”

As soon as Daryl asks, he wishes he hadn’t—he’s yet to go grocery shopping for the week. Last he checked, he’s got a two-liter bottle of RC Cola, leftover Chinese takeout that may or may not be in the process of growing its own ecosystem, some deer jerky, and…a packet of Kraft cheese.

Well. If all else fails, he can always order a pizza. Figures it’s the least he can do for her, considering.

 _Considering_.

“Hm?” Beth hums distractedly, sliding her backpack off her shoulders and setting it down beside Daryl’s lunchbox. “Oh. No, thanks. I had breakfast earlier, an’ then I ate a Moon Pie on the bus.”  

Daryl squints at her. “Don’t sound like much of a lunch.”  

Beth hugs her arms to her chest, beaded bracelets click-clacking as they side down her wrist. “Was too anxious to eat much, I guess.”

Yeah. He knows the feeling.

Well, if she doesn’t want anything to eat, he figures it’s time to face the music. Daryl scrubs awkwardly at the nape of his neck, then turns to head into the narrow living room.

“I wanna keep it.”

Daryl’s feet stop in their tracks. It feels a little bit like his toes have been nailed to the floor, but when Beth says, “Daryl?” all wavering and uncertain, he finds that he actually does have it in him to turn around and face her.

And, Jesus, just look at her. She’s white as a bleached sheet, fingers so tightly interlocked that they’re coming up a mottled purple. She’s fucking terrified—of him, of his reaction, of her own decision? Maybe all three. Who the fuck is he to say?

Daryl’s fingers flex around empty air. His thumb scrapes across his index finger and starts picking at the cuticle.

“You wanna keep it,” he repeats, and, what, is there an echo in here? Only he doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know if there’s anything _to_ say. It’s like his brain’s a bucket and someone hauled off and kicked it over, spilling its contents in a useless puddle across the floor.

Beth’s still too pale, but her nod is certain. Firm. She’s thought about this. She’s _been_ thinking about this.  

And once she’s made up her mind, Daryl knows she won’t change it. Knows how this girl operates when she’s got herself set on something because _he_ was the thing she was set on, once, and she got him. Wound up turning her life on its damn head in the process, but she got him, for whatever that was fucking worth.

“Daryl?”

Shit, right. She probably wants him to tell her how he feels about this, but he _doesn’t fucking know_. It occurs to him, distantly, that he oughta be feeling _something_ , and that it’s probably not a good sign that he _isn’t_ , but he’s just so. Detached. Unmoored. Like he’s having one of those dreams where he watches shit happen to someone who looks like him from the outside without actually experiencing it in the first person.

Some force opens his mouth. Makes him say, “It’s gonna be hell. Raisin’ a kid’s one thing, but people—people’ll talk.”

Beth actually looks _less_ scared when he says that, like having an external force to fight back against makes her feel better, and maybe it does.

“People oughta mind their business,” she says. “An’ I _know_ that it won’t be easy, but I also know that I won’t be alone. I got Maggie and my dad and Mr. Grimes. I’m lucky. Lotsa girls have to do this by themselves, but I don’t.”

Daryl nods dumbly, because she’s right. She _won’t_ have to do this alone. Even if she didn’t have all those other people she just rattled off, she’d still have him, for what little it’s worth. Even if it scares the ever-loving shit out of him.

Beth takes a deep breath and uncoils her clasped fingers. “And I always—I always wanted to start a family, anyways. This’s a little earlier than I was expectin’, but I—I want it, Daryl. I wanna keep it. I want it to grow into a baby, and I wanna be its momma.”

Daryl’s eyes dart to her flat belly and fix there. God. _God_. What the _fuck_.

She’s still talking. He should pay attention.

“And the thing is, I know you promised that you wouldn’t run out on me if I decided to keep it, an’ that—that means a lot, it _does_. But you don’t—I haven’t asked you how _you_ feel about keeping it, and I know it’s my body, but it’s your life, and I’m not—I’m not gonna force you to help me raise it, if you can’t, or if you don’t want to—”

Oh.

Now Daryl feels something.

White, hot anger.

“The fuck you sayin’?” Daryl can’t remember the last time his voice came out sounding this ugly, this _mean_. Not even those assholes at the clinic were able to pull this out of him. And Dog whines in his bed, and he hates himself, and Beth flinches, and he hates himself even more, but he can’t shut his mouth and he can’t fucking stop. “You want me to be some deadbeat dad? Huh? You want me to go bar crawlin’ with my buddies while you lose sleep takin’ care’a our goddamn kid?”

Beth’s eyes go wide, and Daryl realizes what he just said.

 _Our_ kid.

But he doesn’t want to think about that, so he clenches his fists and keeps going.

“You’re sayin’ I’m good enough to be your goddamn attack dog, but I ain’t good enough to help you through this shit? That it?”  

Beth’s face goes blank. “I thought—I thought you didn’t mind helpin’ me out with Jimmy.”

He didn’t, or at least he thought he didn’t. He didn’t, right up until she implied that he’s good enough to put the fear of God in pissant teenage boys, but not good enough to raise a kid with her.  

And what hurts—what _really goddamn hurts_ —is that she’s right.

“I didn’t—” Beth scrubs at her face. Drops her hands and says, “Can we. Can we sit?”

Daryl indicates the living room with an irritable jerk of his head. “Got a couch, don’t I? Sit if you want.”

“Yeah, but I want you to sit _with_ me.”

Daryl glares at her through his bangs.

“Please?”

 _Motherfucker_ , there she goes again. Daryl storms into the living room, patting Dog roughly on the head in passing so he doesn’t think Daryl’s pissed at _him_.

Daryl’s not even pissed off at Beth, is the thing. Not really, not _rationally_. Mostly he’s just pissed at himself.

Daryl throws himself down onto the couch and scowls at his TV’s blank black screen. Wedges himself against the armrest when Beth sits down beside him. She presses her knees together and folds her hands in her lap. Her ponytail’s slung over one shoulder, and the braid running through it is frayed from the day’s humidity.  

“My momma and my brother passed away a couple of years ago,” she says, so apropos of fucking nothing that it actually succeeds in distracting Daryl from the ugly anger curdling in his stomach. “You knew that, right?”

He did, sort of, in that Rick mentioned it in passing. He didn’t pay much attention to Beth in those days, but the thing about Daryl is that he’s observant even when he doesn’t want to be. He remembers that Beth didn’t come around to sit for Rick much. Remembers that she drifted around the house like a little white ghost when she did.

Remembers the thin white scar on her wrist, the one she covers up with those bracelets.

Daryl picks at his cuticles. “Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I remember. Car accident, right?”

The corner of Beth’s mouth curves into a smile. It’s not a happy smile.

“Yeah,” she says. “Drunk driver sent them into a tree. An’ then he died too, so I couldn’t even scream at him.”

Daryl doesn’t say he’s sorry, even though he is, because Beth’s probably heard it a thousand times already. He heard it himself when his momma died, heard it from people who’d never given a single solitary shit about the Dixons when she was alive. Heard it until he started throwing punches at whoever said it.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry, but his body language softens. He eases away from the arm of the couch, not quite touching Beth, but getting close enough that he can feel her body heat and smell the sweat gathered under her arms and in the dip of her throat.

“I was real messed up for a while,” Beth goes on, fingernails scratching lightly at her jeans. “Still am, sometimes, ’cause that kinda thing—it doesn’t just go away. It stays with you, an’ all you can do is manage it. All you can do is try your best, and some days, your best is better than others.”

She peeks at him, and he nods, not just to show that he’s listening, but to convey that he understands what she’s saying.  

Some days are okay. Some days are so bad that you don’t wanna haul your sorry ass out of bed.

“And I’m afraid.” Beth’s voice shakes a little now, wavering under the steel. “I’m so afraid that it’ll get bad again, and that I won’t be the kinda mom my baby needs. I’m afraid I’ll get postpartum depression or somethin’ an’ they’ll be taken away from me, or that Maggie an’ my dad’ll have to do most of the work for me.”

Beth turns to look at Daryl properly, and there are tears standing in her eyes. They haven’t fallen yet, but they will. They’ll cut tracks down her cheeks and dribble off her jaw.

Daryl takes her hand. Wraps his fingers with the torn cuticles and the grimy nails around hers and squeezes, and she flips her hand over to return the pressure. She lets her head drop onto his shoulder, and he feels her tears track wet across his shirt, soaking the flannel.

“I’m scared of messin’ this up,” she says. “And I’m scared that you’ll hate me if I make you do it with me, ’cause I know that it won’t be easy. But I want it. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anythin’ as much as I want this.”

Daryl has to clear his throat a couple of times. “Ain’t gonna hate you. Won’t ever hate you.”

He’s sure of that much. Isn’t sure of anything else, but he’s sure of that. Maybe he hated her a little in the beginning, hated her for being beautiful and sweet and for having a family who loved her, but not anymore. Not ever again.

Beth rolls her cheek against his shoulder. Sniffles wetly in his ear. “What about you?” she asks thickly. “Never asked if _you_ wanted it. And don’t say you want what I want—if it was just up to you, would you want it?”

 _I want_ you, he doesn’t say.

“I don’t… _not_ want it.”

And that’s the truth. It’s probably not the best answer—you probably shouldn’t have a kid unless you want it unquestionably and intensely—but Beth wanted the truth, and this is the best Daryl’s got.

But it’s more than what he thought it would be. Just that he’s not vehemently opposed to it, that’s a goddamn miracle.

Beth laughs shakily. “That’s somethin’, I guess.” She wiggles her hand, interlocks their fingers.  

Daryl opens his mouth, unsure of what he’s gonna say until he’s already saying it.

“My daddy…he was a real shit, nastiest drunk you ever seen. Slapped my momma around, wouldn’t let her go nowhere without his permission, beat on me an’ Merle. Got to the point I couldn’t stand the smell of leather for a while, ’cause of…’cause of his belt…”

Daryl has to stop and compose himself, but Beth doesn’t push him. Just holds his hand and breathes against his throat.

“An’ when I got word that the old bastard died in a huntin’ accident, I fuckin’—I fuckin’ _laughed_.” But then he’d cried, and then he’d bloodied his knuckles punching out a goddamn mirror, because fuck if his feelings for his good-for-nothing daddy weren’t all twisted up and thorny, mostly hate but still a little bit of a helpless kind of love.

He doesn’t want Beth’s baby to feel that way about _him_. God, he _doesn’t_. He doesn’t want his death to be a _relief_.

Beth stirs against him, strands of blond hair catching at his shirt, but she but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look at his face, which is probably a good thing.

“And you’re worried you’ll be like him,” she says. No trace of pity in her voice, which is also good, because if there _was_ , Daryl would probably lose his fucking mind.

So he just nods, chin grazing the crown of Beth’s head.

“My grandfather, he—he was like your daddy. Hurt my dad so bad he started drinkin’ to cope, but Maggie’s momma got him through it. And even when he was drunk, he never raised a hand to nobody. He wasn’t anythin’ like his father.”  

She carries their interlocked hands to her mouth. Presses a kiss to Daryl’s knuckles.  

“And you won’t be, either. You’re a good man, Daryl. One’a the best I ever met. You’re _good_.”

Daryl’s heart clenches in his chest, one great big knot. His breath hitches, then evens out. The knot unravels.

Thing is, he almost believes her, because she sounds so damn _sure_.

“I’m not askin’ you to be my boyfriend,” Beth whispers. “We don’t gotta be together like that if you don’t want to. But I don’t—you’re not an _attack dog_ , an’ I’m real sorry for makin’ you feel that way. I want us to be friends, an’ if you wanna help me out, it’d mean everythin’ to me. You can—you can hold my hand durin’ my OB/GYN appointments, an’ we can pick out baby clothes together. We _can_.”

Her voice is almost like a lullaby, and it makes Daryl’s eyes want to drift shut.

“Folks’ll stare,” he mumbles. “’Specially once you start gettin’ big.”

“Well, fuck ’em,” Beth says primly, and Daryl’s surprised into a laugh. “I don’t care if you don’t care.”

Thing is, he does. But maybe he could be persuaded not to, if Beth didn’t.

“I was gonna take a year off to earn money for school, anyways,” Beth says, a little muzzily now, like she’s feeling groggy, herself. “I’ll still need a real job—don’t make enough sittin’ for Rick. An’ I’ll need to get my license.”

Daryl lifts his cheek off the top of her head. Meets her eyes just to give her a disbelieving look. “You can’t drive?”

“Why you think I always need a ride?”

Yeah. Fair point.

Beth studies their joined hands. “I was. I was busy dealin’ with what happened to my momma an’ Shawn. I couldn’t deal with driver’s ed on top of everythin’ else.”

Daryl immediately feels like a steaming dog turd. “Makes sense,” he says. “’Sides, high school drivin’ instructors are fuckin’ assholes.” At least, they were when _he_ was in school, and he doesn’t imagine that’s changed much in the last twenty years.

Beth smiles, and Daryl feels slightly less shitty. “Shouldn’t make sweeping generalizations like that, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl’s ears heat up. He presses his cheek to the top of her head so she can’t see his face. “Ain’t a generalization if it’s true,” he grumbles. She laughs against his throat, and her breath tickles.  

Eventually, Daryl picks the remote up off the side table and starts flipping through shitty daytime TV, and Dog gets up from his bed to sprawl across their laps. It’s all disturbingly domestic, but Daryl doesn’t let himself think about it too hard.

Merle will be home soon, and that won’t be pleasant, but somehow, for once, Daryl’s convinced that everything will work out okay. It’ll be shitty in places, but maybe the end of the road won’t be so bad.

Maybe they’ll be good.


	5. Chapter 5

  **Wednesday, July 17 th**

 

They’re roughly thirty minutes into some bonkers B-movie spoof called _Attack of the Killer Tomatoes_ when Daryl stirs like he’s preparing to sit up. Beth blinks herself out of her light doze and lifts her cheek off his shoulder, and the tips of their noses brush when she turns to look at him. Daryl backs off in a hurry, ears coming up red, and Beth has to swallow a hiccup of incredulous laughter.   

Just look at them, acting like a couple of twelve-year-olds in the first flush of a mutual infatuation. They’ve already had sex. They’re gonna be _parents_. God Almighty, they need to get their act together.

Daryl untangles his fingers from Beth’s and scratches Dog between the ears. “Was wonderin’,” he starts, then trails off.  

Beth tries to be patient with him, but when the seconds tick over into a minute, she blows out a hard breath and says, “Wonderin’ what?”

Daryl scratches harder, and Dog’s tail thumps blissfully against Beth’s hip. “When you was gonna tell your folks, I guess. About, y’know. Everythin’.”

Oh. Right.

Beth strokes a hand down Dog’s flank and sinks her fingers deep into his soft fur. “About that,” she says, then finds that she has to take a minute of her own to gather her thoughts.

Daryl mutes the TV, then turns to look at Beth, eyes bright and attentive. Patient.

When Beth’s got all the words arranged the way she wants them, she goes on, “I already told Maggie, y’know, on account of—”

“On account’a that Jimmy kid squealin’ like a pig?” Beth laughs, and Daryl—doesn’t _smile_ , exactly, but there’s a soft cast to his mouth, almost as if. Well, it could be that Beth’s reading into things, but it’s almost as if he’s _pleased_ that he made her laugh. Like he’s proud of himself, maybe.

It’s… _cute_.

“Uh, yeah.” Beth has to focus on petting Dog, because seeing Daryl looking at her like _that_ is making _her_ ears heat up. “I guess tellin’ my dad’s the next logical step, but I was thinkin’…”

Beth’s gotta hand it to Daryl: he doesn’t push her, even though he must be feeling anxious as all hell. He doesn’t push her, so Beth pushes herself and says, “I was gonna tell Mr. Grimes first.”

“What,” Daryl says, flatly. Then, “Why.”  

Why? Well, there’s the partial truth, and then there’s the full truth. The latter’s more embarrassing than the former, so she’s gonna work her way up to it.  

“Why, ’cause…well, ’cause you an’ me probably wouldn’t’a met if it weren’t for him. An’ he’s your best friend, an’ I’ve known him since forever. He’s practically family to us both, so I think he’s got a right to know before most everyone else.”  

There’s a dull thud, and when Beth looks up at Daryl, she sees that he’s dropped his head against the back of the couch, throat exposed, unblinking eyes on the ceiling.  

Uh. Should she check that he’s still breathing? “Y’alright?”

Daryl finally blinks. “Jus’ thinkin’ that Rick’ll hafta arrest his own damn self after he’s shot me dead.”  

“Mr. Grimes isn’t goin’ to _kill_ you, Daryl.” Beth’s voice wavers a little as she says it, though, because while she’s certain that Rick wouldn’t _actually_ shoot Daryl, it’s just, well…

Well, it’s just that Rick spent a lot of time with his hand resting all casual-like on his gun belt when Beth and Jimmy first started going steady, and if that’s how he reacted to Beth going out with a boy her own age, imagine what he’ll do when he hears that she’s been _impregnated_ by a much older man—by his _best friend,_ no less.

Yeah. Beth gets why Daryl’s concerned.  

She pulls her legs onto the couch and tucks them under her butt, wrapping an arm around Dog as if to anchor herself.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t…I don’t wanna ruin your friendship with Mr. Grimes. I should’a thought about how this would affect the two’a you.” God, she’s been so _selfish_.

Daryl turns his head to squint at her. “Already told you, girl: you got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

Beth rolls her eyes. “I ain’t sorry for gettin’ _pregnant_.”

Daryl doesn’t physically withdraw from her, but Beth can feel him pulling away emotionally. “You’re sorry we fucked in the firs’ place,” he guesses.

Oh, no. Beth’s not gonna let him do this. Feeling weirdly as if she should be covering Dog’s ears—as if he could somehow understand them—Beth says, “Ain’t sorry about that, either. I’m just sorry that what we did could lose you your best friend. I was selfish.”

Daryl doesn’t lower his defenses, exactly, but Beth gets the impression he’s willing to let them down again, supposing this conversation doesn’t go completely south. “Think you deserve to be selfish,” he says quietly, “every once in a while.”

Beth blinks rapidly. She’s already cried twice today. She’s not gonna go for a third. “I mean. Still.”

Daryl lets out a long, steady sigh. “Nah,” he says. “Me an’ Rick, we been through a lotta shit together. More’n you know. Don’t think this’ll be the thing that ‘ruins our friendship’ or what the fuck ever.”

Beth goes back to carding her fingers through Dog’s fur. “You just sayin’ that?”

“Nah. Ain’t bullshittin’ you. We’ll be good.”

Daryl sounds pretty sure of what he’s saying, but if he turns out to be wrong, Beth doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to forgive herself. Knows damn well that _Daryl_ won’t forgive himself.

“We’ll tell him together,” Beth says. “Me an’ you. You two can go out somewhere this Saturday, an’ I’ll sit for Judy, an’ when you get back, we’ll talk to him.”

“A’right.”  

“And my dad…” Beth copies Daryl and lets her head thunk against the back of the couch. “I think I wanna work up to tellin’ him. First Maggie, then Rick, then my dad.”  

“You want me to be there when you tell ’im?”

Yes, she does. Desperately. And, on the one hand, if Daryl isn’t there when Beth tells her dad, Hershel will assume he’s a good-for-nothing deadbeat who lacks the gumption to face the father of the girl he impregnated. On the other hand—

“I think I should do it by myself,” Beth says, holding up a hand when Daryl opens his mouth to argue. “No, listen. It’s not that I don’t want you there; I do. But I think I’ll be able to keep a better handle on the situation if it’s just me and him.” And Maggie, maybe. Yeah. Maybe they can tag team their dad. They’ve done it before.

“Ain’t gonna get into a fistfight with your daddy, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Daryl grumbles.

“I ain’t worried about that,” Beth fibs. Her dad might be a pacifist in theory, but lofty ideology rarely wins out against paternal instinct. “I just don’t want him yellin’ at _you_ when he should be listenin’ to _me_. You an’ him can talk later, if you still want. Just let me talk to him first. Alright?”

“Should I ask Rick to lend me some body armor?” Daryl wonders, and Beth can’t tell if he’s joking, but she laughs anyway.

“Nah. If Maggie hasn’t shot you yet, then neither will my dad.” Although Otis just might.

Daryl rubs absently at his sternum, like he’s imagining buckshot going through it. But he says, “A’right. If that’s whatchu want.”

Beth nods, even if it isn’t _exactly_ what she wants—what she _wants_ is for this to go smoothly the whole way through. For everyone to just accept her condition and her relationship with Daryl without pitching any fits.

But she knows that won’t happen.

Daryl turns the volume on the TV back up, and Beth takes that as a signal that their conversation has reached its end, unless she has anything significant to add. She doesn’t, and she’s just returned her head to its former resting place on his shoulder—he doesn’t shrug her off—when Dog perks up and jumps out of their laps.

“What’s got him all keyed up?” Beth asks as Dog trots into the kitchen, tail wagging so hard it blurs.

Daryl doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to, because Beth can hear a key turning in the lock.

Oh.

Beth tenses up, and Daryl tenses right along with her. His hand drops onto her thigh and squeezes, like he wants to grab her and stash her in a closet or something, but it’s too late for that. The door’s already swung open, and a man who can only be Daryl’s brother is clomping inside to the tune of Dog’s excited barking.

“ _Down_ , you lil’ shit. _Whoo_. The fuck’s your boy been feedin’ you? Grilled roadkill?”

The guy’s too busy trying to pry Dog off his shoulders to pay Beth or Daryl any attention, so Beth takes the opportunity to look him over. He’s got the raspy voice of a lifetime smoker, and his hair’s so closely cropped that Beth can’t really tell what color it is. He’s not as bulky across the shoulders as Daryl, and he’s not very tall, but he doesn’t have to be a big guy for Beth to feel intimidated.

“Yo! Daryl!” Dog finally drops down onto his haunches, tongue lolling, and Merle turns towards the living room. “How you feel ’bout orderin’ us up a meat lover’s pizza—”

Merle’s eyes initially skip over Beth like he didn’t really register her presence at his brother’s side, only to bounce back and fix on her. He freezes with one foot in the kitchen and the other in the living room, Dog coming over to lean heavily against his legs. Merle’s eyebrows are climbing slowly but surely towards his hairline, and Beth might not know him personally, but she knows how men are, and she knows what it’s like to have an older sibling.

So she preempts the inevitable round of teasing by hopping off the couch, striding up to Merle, and sticking out her hand.

“Hiya,” she says. “I’m Beth Greene. I sit for Mr. Grimes? Me an’ your brother are havin’ a baby.”

Daryl makes a noise like he’s just choked on his own spit, and maybe he has.

Merle’s weathered face cycles rapidly through a wheel of expressions before settling on incredulous. He looks over Beth’s shoulder and says, “Bit early for April Fool’s, ain’t it, little brother?”

“This ain’t no joke,” Beth says, and Merle’s eyes—blue like his brother’s, if nowhere near as kind—snap back to her face. “An’ I’d really appreciate it if you looked at me while I was speakin’ to you, Mr. Dixon.”

Merle eyes Beth’s outstretched hand like it’s a pit viper ready to strike. He doesn’t look at all inclined to shake it, so Beth withdraws it and props it against her hip, trying to make it look like that was her plan all along.  

“Now, you listen t’me, honey,” Merle says, and Beth’s hackles go up at his condescending tone. “I dunno what you’re tryna pull, here—”

Beth sticks out her chin. “Told you, my name’s Beth. Not honey, not sweetheart. _Beth_. An’ I ain’t tryin’ to _pull_ anythin’. Me an’ your brother are gonna be parents, and _you’re_ gonna be an uncle. Congratulations, it’s a zygote.”

Merle’s upper lip curls into the suggestion of a snarl, and it’s funny. More than once, Beth has drawn private comparisons between Daryl and a stray cat.

Merle’s more like a rottweiler.

Merle starts to say something—probably something that’ll make Beth want to slap him, going off the look on his face—but then Daryl comes up behind Beth and touches the small of her back. She didn’t hear him coming, but then, she usually doesn’t.

“I’m takin’ you home.” Daryl’s words are for Beth, but when she cranes a look at him over her shoulder, she sees that his eyes are on his brother.

Beth frowns. “But—”

“Your family’ll miss you if you stay out too late.” The hand on Beth’s back gives her a gentle nudge. “C’mon.”

Beth wants to dig in her heels, but there’s something crackling in the air between the Dixon brothers, and while Beth doesn’t want to leave Daryl to confront Merle on his own, she’s also afraid that her presence will just make things worse, like they’re the lightning bolts and she’s the lightning rod.

So Beth lets Daryl urge her forward and heads into the kitchen to retrieve her bag. Dog follows her, and she idly pets him on the head while she waits by the door.   

Daryl and Merle are still doing that stupid silent male posturing thing she’s seen guys at her high school do when they’re about five seconds away from breaking into a physical fight. Beth clears her throat, and Daryl snaps out of it, coming into the kitchen to retrieve his keys and hold the door open for her.

Merle turns to watch them go, eyes narrowed to glittering slits.

“It was nice meetin’ you,” Beth says to Merle. Merle doesn’t say anything, but he makes a face like he damn well knows that Beth’s lying through her teeth. Then Daryl crowds up against her, urging her through the open doorway and onto the wooden deck.  

Beth doesn’t say anything until Daryl’s yanked the door shut. “You gonna be okay?”

Daryl scoffs, then moves around her to take the steps two at a time. Rolling her eyes, Beth trots to keep up with his longer stride.

“I mean, will you be alright handlin’ him on your own—”

“Girl, I been _handlin’_ Merle since you was in pigtails. Don’t gotta worry yourself on my account.”

“Yeah, but this’ll be your first time explaining that you’ve knocked a girl up outta wedlock.” Beth pauses. “Uh. It is, right? Your first time?”   

Daryl wheels around to face her. “The fuck you think?”

Beth shrugs on her backpack, wishing that she hadn’t said anything at all. “Iunno. You’re a grown man, an’ it’s not like you were a virgin when we did it. This could’a happened to you before.”  

“Well, it fuckin’ didn’t.”

“Okay.”

Daryl’s scowl flickers. “ _Okay_?”

“Said you never knocked anyone up before me. I believe you.”

Daryl’s eyes drop. He scuffs a toe through the scrubby grass.  

“An’ I know that you can handle your brother just fine on your own,” Beth goes on, doing her best to tread carefully. “I’m just sayin’, you don’t _have_ to. Y’know. If you don’t want to.”

“Don’t want _you_ to hafta deal with ’im,” Daryl mutters. “Merle, he—he ain’t as bad as he used t’be, but he still don’t know much about respectin’ women.”  

Beth’s tummy gets all warm and floaty like it did when Daryl apologized on behalf of his rubbernecking coworkers. “Guess I’ll just have to teach him some manners,” she says, smiling a little. “Since I’ll be seein’ more of him whether I like it or not.”

“I could—”

Beth’s smile drops. “Daryl Dixon, I know you ain’t about to offer to kick your brother outta his home on my account.”

The set of Daryl’s face is defiant. “S’ _my_ home. I bought it. Merle jus’ lives here.”

“Yeah, but you don’t _really_ wanna kick him out. Do you?”

Daryl doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

Beth ventures closer and takes one of Daryl’s hands in both of hers, skating her thumbs across his knuckles. Merle might very well be watching them through one of the trailer’s windows, but Beth doesn’t care. Let him watch. Let him draw his own conclusions.

“He’s your brother,” Beth says softly, smile returning when Daryl curls his fingers around hers. “I don’t know how things are between the two’a you, but I know that I don’t wanna cause trouble. I just want us all to get along. Is that too much to ask?”

“Might be,” Daryl grumbles, “s’far as Merle’s concerned.”  

“Guess I’ll just have to win him over, then, huh?” Beth says with weaponized cheerfulness.

Daryl snorts. “Merle ain’t easily won.”

“I won _you_ over,” Beth reminds him, blushing a little at the memory of just _how_ she won him.

Daryl squints at her. “…Prob’ly best that you don’t try to win ’im over the way you won _me_ ,” he says, and Beth thinks that there might be a note of teasing in his voice.

 _Beth_ snorts this time, even as she blushes harder. She drops one hand but keeps the other wrapped around Daryl’s, leading the way to his beat-up Ford. “You don’t gotta worry about _that_. Your brother ain’t really my type.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Daryl mutters, and Beth giggles. She doesn’t walk around the truck and climb inside, though. No, she turns to face Daryl and blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

“Can I kiss you?”

Daryl balks. “Thought you didn’t want us to date.”

No, she said that he didn’t have to be her boyfriend. She never said anything about not _wanting_ him to be.

But she just shrugs and hopes that he can’t feel her pulse galloping against his thumb.  

“We don’t gotta date to kiss. Friends can kiss, ’specially when they’re doin’ it to say thank you.”

“The hell you thankin’ me for?”

Beth looks him in the face. “For bein’ so understanding. For doin’ this with me even though you don’t know for sure if you  _want_ a baby. For bein’ so sweet.”

Daryl hunches up like a ruffled bird. “Ain’t sweet.”

He is, though, and if he can’t see that, well. Beth will just have to work on improving his self-image, won’t she?

In the meantime.

“So can I kiss you?” Beth asks. “You can say no. Promise you won’t hurt my feelings.”

Daryl doesn’t say yes or no, but the hand not holding hers curves around her hip, steadying her as he ducks his head in close. Beth pushes up onto her toes, meeting him in the middle and nudging her softened mouth against his. His lips are chapped, and his beard scratches her chin, but it’s nice. Chaste, but lingering. His eyelashes brush her cheeks, tickling her.  

Daryl’s breath trembles out. His fingers squeeze her hip once before letting go, and Beth falls back onto the flats of her feet. Her lips are tingling.

She clears her throat. Licks the taste of his mouth off her lips. “Thanks.”

Daryl yanks the driver’s side door open and mumbles, “Think you got it backwards, girl.” Beth pretends she didn’t hear him, turning her face into her shoulder so he doesn’t see her pleased smile.

Beth circles to the passenger side door and climbs inside. Through the window, she sees a tarp-covered bulk that could be a motorcycle, but no other cars.  

“Where’s Merle’s car?” She hadn’t heard the rumble of a bike’s engine, so.

Daryl twists in his seat, hand braced against the back of Beth’s as he backs out of his short driveway, fingers catching lightly at the ends of her hair. “In pieces,” he says shortly. “He can’t drive, anyways, not legally. Got his license revoked.”

“Oh. He take the bus a lot, too?”

“Mhm.”

Daryl swings out onto the road, and Beth turns her head to keep looking at the tarp-covered bike. “That your bike?”

“Was Merle’s. Guess it’s mine now.”

“Can you take me for a ride sometime?”

Daryl’s fingers tighten on the wheel. “In your condition? Hell no.”

Beth huffs. “I’m pregnant, Daryl, not made of glass. ’Sides, you should take me out on it now before I get too big to fit on the seat.”

She flattens a hand against her belly as she says it, trying to imagine the elastic stretch of skin, the low-hanging weight of a growing fetus. God, how’s she gonna see her feet to tie her shoes? She’ll have to buy moccasins or something.

Beth looks up, catching Daryl in the act of tearing his eyes away from her stomach. “Ain’t happenin’, Greene.”

“Okay,” Beth says easily, and Daryl relaxes. “You’ll just have to take me out on it after the baby’s been born.”

“ _Girl_ —”

 

* * *

 

Daryl doesn’t head home right away, opting to pull into the McDonald’s drive-thru and order himself a Big Mac meal. He eats it in the parking lot, grease dripping down his fingers, and then he stops to top up his gas tank even though it was already half full.

Yeah, fine. He’s procrastinating, but who could blame him? He can only handle one come-to-Jesus talk per day, and he’s got plenty more lined up in his near future, besides.

But then he gets pissed. Goddammit, it’s _his_ motherfucking house. He’s not gonna act like a pussy and spend the night in his truck just to postpone the inevitable.  

Daryl’s raring for a fight when he walks in the door, but he loses some steam when he sees Merle, slumped on the couch and watching _Charlie’s Angels_ (because of course he is). He’s got Dog at his feet, a glass of RC Cola on his knee, and the calico cat curled in his lap.

Daryl states the obvious. “You let the cat in.”

Merle takes a long swig of Cola. “An’ you been feedin’ it.”

Well. Yeah.

Merle drains his Cola and nudges the cat out of his lap, and she does a little stretch before hopping off the couch to curl up on Dog’s flank. Dog sticks his nose in her thick fur, tail thumping gently.

Merle gets to his feet and does some stretching of his own, joints popping as he digs a fist into the small of his back. He wanders into the kitchen to rinse out his glass and set it out to dry on the counter, and Daryl turns to watch him.  

Daryl crosses his arms. “G’on. Say it.”

Merle props his ass against the kitchen table and folds his arms too. “Say what?” he drawls. Daryl could punch him.

He doesn’t. “You fuckin’ know what. Jus’ say your piece already so I can get on with the rest’a my day.”

Merle looks Daryl over, taking his measure. “I take it Blondie wasn’t shittin’ me about bein’ knocked up.”

“Her name’s Beth,” Daryl snaps, and immediately regrets giving away how much he cares when Merle starts to smirk. “An’ no. She wasn’t shittin’ you.”

“You tell her to get rid of it?”

Daryl shuffles over to the fridge and grabs the bottle of RC Cola. He gets a glass out of the cabinet and pours himself some, even though what he really wants is a beer. Or whiskey.

He leans back against the kitchen counter and takes a sip. Damn stuff’s gone nearly flat. “Ain’t my body. I don’t get to tell her what t’do with it.”

Merle laughs, and it’s not a pleasant sound. “What, you a feminist now or somethin’? Gonna go out an’ burn some bras?”

Daryl’s fingers tighten around his glass. He contemplates throwing it at Merle’s head. “Bra burnin’ was the sixties, dumbass.”  

Merle tosses his head like an irritated horse, dismissive. “Man, whatever. So, what, you gonna let some pretty little thing squeeze y’for child support? Gonna pay her medical bills?”

“I got insurance, an’ so does her dad. We’ll be a’right.”  

Merle’s face goes blank. “You’re really keepin’ the damn thing,” he realizes out loud. “You really went an’ knocked up some cornfed teenybopper, an’ you’re keepin’ it. Man, is she even _legal_?”

Daryl drains his Cola, and it leaves a sticky-sweet film on his tongue. “Don’t be fuckin’ nasty. Y’know I don’t fuck kids.”

“Don’t fuck much’a anyone, near as I recall,” Merle says thoughtfully. “The one time you decide to get your dick wet, you land yourself a baby momma. Man, your luck is absolute _shit_ , anyone ever tell you that?”

Only himself, and only a thousand times. “Don’t matter.” He rinses his glass out and sets it down beside Merle’s to dry. “What matters is that Beth’s gon’ be around a lot from here on out, so you best mind your manners when you speak to her.” 

Merle wheezes out a laugh, and Daryl turns back around to scowl at him. “Never thought I’d see the day,” he marvels. “You’re _sweet_ on that pretty lil’ thing, ain’t you?”

Daryl twitches. “Don’t gotta be sweet on her to do right by her an’ the kid.”

Merle snorts. “Yeah, an’ that’s another thing. The fuck makes you think you can do right by that girl, least of all the baby in her belly? Dixons are shit fathers, boy, you know that.”

The scars on Daryl’s back tingle, but he says, “I dunno. You did alright. With me.” Merle’s far from a perfect brother, but he was always more of a father to Daryl than their daddy ever was.  

Merle’s lips twist. Daryl would venture to call the look on his face ‘embarrassed,’ although Merle would probably clock him for saying so. “Man, don’t go gettin’ all Hallmark on me. Bound t’make me lose my damn lunch.”

Daryl shrug and picks at his cuticles.

Merle heads into the living room, slapping Daryl’s hands in passing. “Man, would you cut that shit out? Gonna tear your fingers to pieces one’a these days, get ’em all infected, an’ don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Merle stops in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, swinging around to point a warning finger at Daryl.

“I’ll tell you somethin’ else,” he says. “You best fuck the shit outta that girl while you still can, ’fore she goes an’ gets as big as a house.”

Daryl really, _really_ wants to hit him. “You best watch your mouth when you talk about her.”

“Not sweet on her, huh?” Merle drawls, then darts out of reach before Daryl can take a swing at him, cackling like he thinks he’s fucking hilarious, and he probably does. He goes into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Daryl tucks his hands into his pockets, rooting around for his lighter and his pack of Marlboros. He unearths the crumpled pack and tests its weight in his hand, staring at the logo.

He’ll have to quit cold turkey, if he intends to spend a lot of time around a pregnant woman.  

Daryl tucks a cigarette into his mouth but doesn’t light it, ears pricked for the sound of running water. He’s patient, waiting until he’s sure that Merle’s got the spray at the ideal temperature.   

Then he sneaks into the bathroom and flushes the toilet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Attack of the Killer Tomatoes_ is a real movie, because you cannot make this shit up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Saturday, July 20 th **

 

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“That’s the sixth time you’ve asked,” Beth sighs. “And, yeah. I’m sure.”

Something in Maggie’s face tells Beth that she’s not above child locking the car doors until she gets her way. “C’mon, don’t exaggerate.”

Glenn leans into the open space between the two front seats and says, “She’s not exaggerating. That _was_ the sixth time you asked. I’ve been keeping count.”

 _Now_ the look on Maggie’s face suggests that Glenn’s well on his way to the doghouse. “Don’t go gangin’ up on me.”

“Nobody’s gangin’ up on anybody, Mags.” But Beth sneaks Glenn a grateful look, and he responds with a tiny, fleeting smile.

Beth fibbed a little when she told Daryl that Rick was next on her list of people to talk to about her pregnancy—only, no, it wasn’t _exactly_ a fib, on account of she hadn’t  _planned_  to tell Glenn first. But then Maggie invited Beth along to third wheel her standing Friday night date, and Beth was feeling just pathetic and lonely enough to accept. And then the truth just kind of…slipped out over pizza dinner.

To Glenn’s credit, he took the news surprisingly well, although, at first, he suspected that Beth and Maggie were pranking him. Once they convinced him otherwise, he sat in silence for a couple of minutes before turning to Maggie and saying, “Does this technically make me an uncle now or what?”

At that point, Beth burst into tears and hugged him, and Glenn rubbed her back a little frantically while he and Maggie conducted a whispered exchange over the top of Beth’s head.

So, yeah. One down. Pretty much anyone Beth’s ever met to go.

Maggie’s still on the same tract. “I just think that you an’ Mr. Dixon could use a buffer.”

“Oh,” Beth says, a little sarcastically. “So _now_ you’re concerned about his safety.”

Maggie’s smile is brittle. “Nah. Just want first dibs on kickin’ his ass, is all.”

Glenn braces his elbow on the back of Maggie’s seat and leans his cheek against his hand. “Daryl’s not that bad. He’s never even been to prison.”

“Oh, because _that’s_ a glowing recommendation,” Maggie snaps.

Beth drops her face into her hands with an impatient groan. They’re idling in front of Mr. Grimes’s house, and eventually, he’s gonna come out and ask them what they’re doing sitting in the car for so long.

“Hey,” says Glenn. “Like, if it _does_ come down to a physical altercation—uh, not that it will—can you even call the police on Rick? I mean, he _is_ the police.”

Beth drops her hands into her lap and sits up straight. “Nobody’s gonna call the police on anybody. Will y’all just let me outta this car already or what?”

Glenn holds his hands up defensively. “Don’t ‘y’all’ me. This is all her.” But then he makes a face and backtracks. “Uh. Not that I _wouldn’t_ go with you. If you wanted.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Beth says firmly. She grabs the door handle and gives Maggie a Look over her shoulder. “Y’all just enjoy your Saturday, okay? I’ll call you if I need anythin’. _Seriously_ ,” she stresses at Maggie’s pinched frown.

Maggie exchanges a long look with Glenn, then relents. “Fine.” She levels her index finger at Beth. “But _seriously_ , don’t be afraid to call or text me or whatever. Anythin’ you need.”

Glenn squeezes Beth’s shoulder, and Beth grips Maggie’s hand, and then she pulls away from them both to climb out of the car so Glenn can take her place in the passenger seat. Beth waves goodbye, and she doesn’t move from her spot on the sidewalk until Maggie’s driven off down the street. And then she gives it another couple of seconds to make sure that they haven’t decided to circle back around.

They don’t, so Beth pivots to face Rick’s house. It’s a nice house—bright white siding that’s just been power washed, pale blue shutters, detached garage and shed painted to match. There’s nothing outwardly intimidating about it.

Still, Beth takes one look at it and has to swallow a surge of nausea.

Rick’s next-door neighbor is hosting some kind of party in his backyard—looks like a barbecue. Beth shuts her eyes for a second, letting the white noise of chatter wash over her and blank out her brain. She tangles her fingers in her sundress’s skirt and worries at the lightweight fabric.

She’s starting to wish that she’d asked Glenn and Maggie to stay, after all.

“Get lost on your way to Saturday worship, honey?”

Beth opens her eyes to the sight of a man detaching himself from the group at the barbecue and wandering over to the sidewalk. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and there’s a dimpled smile on his face.

“Oh,” Beth says, a little belatedly. “G’mornin’, Mr. Negan. No, uh. I’m—I’m here to sit for Mr. Grimes.”

Negan—Beth’s never been sure whether that was his first name or his last, or if he’s got a Cher thing going on—taught health and P.E. at Beth’s high school. From what she recalls, he spent a lot of time on his phone and collectively addressed his students as “you little shits.” He never perved on the kids or anything, but his smile always unnerved Beth a little. It’s unnerving her right now.

These days, though, Beth mostly knows Negan as the guy whose apple tree is always dropping fruit and leaves into Rick’s yard, because Rick will complain about it vocally and at length to anyone who’ll listen until Daryl tells him to shut the hell up.

Negan rocks back on his heels and assesses Beth from his frankly intimidating height. “That right? You’re dressed up so pretty, I assumed you were on your way to pay your respects to the Man Upstairs—sure you wanna get spit up all over that nice outfit of yours?”

Beth wants to tell him that once you’ve changed a couple hundred diapers, spit up’s small potatoes—but she just smiles a little stiffly while she struggles to think up a way of politely extricating herself from this conversation.

“I’m good.” Beth shifts from foot to foot and looks no-so-subtlety over Negan’s shoulder. Dammit, Rick, where the hell are you? “This is an old dress, anyways.”

Negan snaps his fingers and points at Beth, eyes going wide. “Hey. Weren’t you in one of my classes back at the high school? Greene, right? Maggie Greene?”

Beth sighs. This isn’t the first time that a teacher’s called her by her sister’s name, but still. It gets old fast. “That’s my older sister, Mr. Negan. I’m Beth.”

Negan smacks his fist against an open palm. “Of _course_ you damn well are! How _could_ I forget little Beth Greene? That cornfed boyfriend of yours treating you right?”

Beth assumes that Negan’s talking about Jimmy, since Zach’s from a city in Connecticut and couldn’t be accurately described as ‘cornfed.’ “We broke up.”

Negan’s smile gets bigger, and Beth’s stomach twirls uneasily. “That _is_ a shame,” he says, sounding deeply insincere. “Why don’t you join me and my buddies for a while? We’re barbecuing us up some ribs. Nothing like good food to get your mind off those post-breakup blues.”  

Beth’s about to walk away from this conversation outright, and screw good manners. “We broke up two years ago, Mr. Negan.”

“And I’ll bet you’re still busted up about it. First cut is the deepest and all that.”

Beth opens her mouth to say something—possibly something rude, because she’s just about had it up to here, and no wonder Rick hates this guy—but the smell of barbecued ribs rolls across her palate when she does, plugging up her nose, and she doesn’t eat a lot of meat but it’s not like the smell’s ever made her sick to her stomach before, except—

It starts off as a little burp, and Beth plugs her fist against her mouth, mortified, but then her stomach pitches sideways, and she’s got to move her hand out of the way so she can barf a chunky stream of vomit all across the sidewalk.

And, incidentally, all over Negan’s shoes.

“What the _shit_ ,” Negan barks.

It’s nearly noon, but Beth read that morning sickness is kind of poorly named and can actually happen at any point in the day, so. Looks like WebMD wasn’t shitting her.  

“Beth!”

Beth wipes a trembling hand across her mouth and lifts her head to squint through watering eyes. Rick, Daryl, _and_ Carl are racing down the sidewalk, and when did they even get out here? Daryl gets to her first, unconcernedly sidestepping the steaming puddle of vomit and ignoring Negan’s increasingly creative cursing to frame Beth’s face with blessedly cool fingers and examine her from up close.

Daryl slides his thumbs over the wings of Beth’s cheekbones. “Y’alright?”

Beth glances at Negan, then mouths ‘Morning sickness.’ Daryl nods, dropping his hands and taking a step back—but not so far back that he couldn’t hold Beth’s hair if she started puking again.

Negan, meanwhile, has removed his shoes in order to dangle them in Rick’s face. “Wouldn’t recommend letting that sitter of yours anywhere near Carl or Jude, Rick. Think she’s got the stomach flu or some shit.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Rick clips out, dodging the strings of vomit dripping off of Negan’s sneakers. “Beth, honey, d’you think you’re gonna get sick again?”

“Uh.” Beth lets out a little burp, but aside from that and the nasty taste clinging to her tongue and teeth, she feels okay. “No. I don’t think so.” Wait a second. “Uh. Who’s watchin’ Judith?”

Rick’s eyes widen. “Shit.”

“I’ll go watch her,” Carl says, and he trots back inside after giving Beth one last concerned look.

Negan thrusts his shoes under Rick’s nose. “Pardon the fuck outta me, but what the fuck are you gonna do about these?”  

Daryl sidles in front of Beth, and she grips his forearm as she peers over his shoulder at the fight brewing on Rick’s sidewalk.

Rick’s hand twitches like he wants to slap the shoes away, only he doesn’t, because they’re covered in vomit. “The hell d’you mean, _what am I gonna do about these_? It was an accident.”

“Motherfucker, they are dripping in little girl puke. You know how much these things cost? These are Nike Air Jordans, asshole.”

Rick’s eyes get flinty. “Yeah? Then what the hell are you don’ with ’em? Didn’t think a teacher’s salary would cover _those_.”

“The fuck are you implying, Prick?”

“Not implying anythin’. Just wonderin’ if I should make this department business or not.”

“You saying I got black-market shoes, Sheriff? Is that what’s fucking going on here?”

Beth hiccups out a laugh, which turns out to be a mistake, because the tickle in her diaphragm triggers a second wave of nausea. She gives Daryl’s arm a frantic tug, and when he turns to look at her, she whispers, “Daryl, I—I think m’gonna be sick again.”

Daryl says, “Shit,” and immediately scoops Beth up into his arms. Beth’s stomach spins, but she clenches her teeth and somehow manages to _not_ throw up all over him. Still, it’s only a matter of time until she _does_.

Daryl trots around Rick and Negan, who are too absorbed in one another to pay anyone else any mind, and makes a beeline for the front door, and then the powder room. The toilet seat’s already up, so as soon as Daryl sets Beth gently down, she wraps her arms around the bowl and lets her body do what it needs to do.

It’s awful, but vomiting’s always awful, and at least Daryl’s here with her, even if doing this in front of him is pretty humiliating. He doesn’t seem put off by it, though, scooting in close to hold her ponytail out of the way, legs to either side of her hips. He wraps his other arm around her middle, bracing it against her heaving stomach, and Beth thinks that it’s probably the only thing keeping her from falling face first into the toilet.

When she’s finished, she flushes the toilet but leaves the seat up just in case, then slumps back against Daryl’s chest. She’s still wearing her backpack, and it’s smushed awkwardly between them, but she can’t be bothered to take it off.  

“Y’know,” Beth says thickly, “my momma never got morning sickness. I was kinda expectin’ to take after her, but I guess I’m not that lucky.”

Daryl knocks his head gently against hers. “Christ, girl. M’so fuckin’ sorry.”

Beth laughs breathlessly, then cuts it out when her laugh turns into a hiccup that could turn into another round of nausea. “The heck are you sorry for?”

Daryl’s beard scratches her skin when he tucks his face into the crook of her neck, and that would probably feel nice if she weren’t a sweating mess with a mouth that tasted like puke. “M’the one who done this t’you.”  

Beth licks bile off her lips— _ew_ —and pats clumsily at Daryl’s hands. “Daryl,” she whispers, mindful of Carl in the next room over, “in case you forgot—and I really, _really_ hope you haven’t—I was an _active and willing participant_.”

Daryl mumbles something incoherent against her neck, and she sighs.

“Save the guilt for when I’m havin’ labor pains, okay? Then I’ll yell at you as much as you want.”

Daryl stiffens against her and starts to scoot away, and at first, Beth thinks that her awkward stab at levity just upset him more, but, no. Rick’s standing in the open doorway, face caught in a rictus of confusion.

Well, shit.

“Uh.” Rick blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to clear dust from his eyes. “Everythin’ okay in here?”

“Yup,” Beth says, too bright, too cheerful. Daryl’s hand is still on her hip. “Could use a glass of water, though, an’ maybe some ginger ale, if you got any.”

“Think I do—and if I don’t, I can go out an’ get some.” But the confusion on Rick’s face is slowly transforming into something else, and Beth can tell that he’s trying to puzzle her and Daryl out—especially Daryl, who rarely touches other people if he can help it, and certainly not this intimately.

Daryl gets to his feet. He reaches out a hand to help Beth up and doesn’t let go even after she’s found her balance. No, he squeezes her hand like a lifeline, lifts his chin, and stares Rick full in the face.

Oh. Is he—is he really going to—

“It’s mine.”

Beth chokes on her own spit, because, yeah. Apparently, he is.

Rick’s brows knit. “Uh. What?”

Daryl’s inhalation is a little shaky, but his grip on Beth is firm. “Man, you need your ears checked. Said the thing’s mine. I’m the one who knocked Beth up.”

Rick’s face blanks out, and Beth abruptly wishes that she and Daryl weren’t backed into a tiny powder room with Rick blocking the only exit.

But then Rick does the last thing Beth was expecting him to do.

He _laughs_.

“No, you ain’t,” he says.

Uh. What?

Daryl’s hand spasms. “The fuck you say?”

“I said, no, you ain’t.” He points first at Daryl, then at Beth. “I’m sayin’ that you can barely look Beth in the eye, so how the hell could you’ve managed to _knock her up_?”

“ _Christ_.” Daryl drops Beth’s hand and rakes his fingers through his hair. “The fuck you want me to do? Draw you a fuckin’ diagram? You got two kids, don’t you? Think you’d damn well know how it works.”

Rick’s face goes all blank again, Beth doesn’t even have to look at Daryl to know that he wishes he could snatch the words back and cram them down his throat, but it’s too late. It is way, _way_ too late.

Only Rick just says, “Yeah. Yeah, I know a thing or two about how it works. Which is why I don’t get how it could’a worked between the two of _you_.”

“I wanted him.”

Two pairs of blue eyes lock on Beth, and she realizes, oh. She said that out loud. Well, fine. Might as well see it through, then.

“I wanted him,” Beth repeats, shaking all over from fingers to toes. “I wanted him, so I did somethin’ about it. _That’s_ how it worked.”

Something dawns in Rick’s eyes. Comprehension, maybe. Acceptance, possibly.

He drags his hands down his face and mutters, “Jesus Christ. You really aren’t shittin’ me, are you?”

“Why do people keep fuckin’ askin’ me that,” Daryl grumbles.  

Beth gives Daryl a questioning look, then says to Rick, “No, we ain’t. Me an’ Daryl are havin’ a baby, an’ we wanted you to be one of the first people to know.”

Rick drops his hands, and his expression is too complex for Beth to decipher. He goes to reply, but then there’s a commotion out in the hallway, and all three of them exchange startled looks before stumbling out of the powder room.

Carl’s standing stock still in the hallway, baby monitor at his feet—the back panel’s popped out, and the batteries are rolling across the floor. He gives Daryl a look hateful enough to make _Beth_ flinch before turning his back on them and storming up the stairs.

Distantly, Beth hears a door swing open and slam shut.

“ _Shit_ ,” Rick and Daryl say in unison.

Beth crouches to scoop up the monitor and replace the batteries. She checks to see that it’s still working, then swings around to face Rick and Daryl.

“If I go up an’ talk to him,” she says, “will you two promise not to kill each other while I’m gone?”

“Ain’t gonna kill nobody,” says Daryl.

“Can’t make any promises,” says Rick.

Daryl scowls at Rick, and Rick scowls right back.

Beth folds her arms. Taps her foot.

Rick sighs and sketches an X over his heart. “Yeah, okay, fine. Cross my heart. Ain’t lookin’ to arrest my own damn self.”

Beth considers taking the baby monitor with her in order to make sure that Rick and Daryl keep their promises, but she can’t concentrate on reasoning with Carl if she has to keep half an ear on what’s going on downstairs. She taps the monitor against Daryl’s chest, and he takes it.

“Alright,” she says, nodding. “Just. Try to act like adults while I’m gone.”   

And then she turns and mounts the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Daryl plunks down on the couch, and Rick flops into his recliner. Judith’s awake in her crib and doing her damnedest to roll over onto her tummy, and Daryl and Rick both watch her instead of whatever’s playing on the TV.

Eventually, Rick says, “Carl was supposed to go to the mall with Sophia. Guess I’ll have to text Carol and cancel.”

Yeah. Because Carl’s too busy plotting Daryl’s violent demise to go and hang out with his friends.

Thinking about the way Carl looked at him back there feels a little like getting stabbed repeatedly in the gut, though, so Daryl tries to concentrate on the here and now. “Ain’t gonna punch me, huh?”

“I want to,” Rick admits, fiddling with the remote. “But I don’t think I’m gonna.”

“You don’t _think_?” Daryl echoes, and Rick’s mouth twinges like he kind of wants to smile.

“Depends,” says Rick. “You gonna treat her right?”

The phantom stab wounds sting like someone just doused them with salt, but Daryl still manages to grind out, “Gon’ do my best.”

“So I guess I can’t punch you.”

Judith rolls onto her belly, chubby fists flailing against the crib’s yellow mattress pad. Rick braces his feet against the floor like he wants to get up and turn her back over, but he waits her out instead.

Daryl clears his throat. “Not gonna ask me if I took advantage or whatever?”

Rick gives Daryl a look like he just insulted the dude’s mother. “No, I won’t, ’cause I know that’s not the kind of man you are.”

Daryl’s the kind of man who impregnates teenagers, apparently, so whatever. “Lotsa folks think they know people, up till those people prove ’em wrong.”

Rick white knuckles the remote. “You gonna prove me wrong?”

Daryl runs his thumb over his index finger. “Nah.”

“So, like I said: guess I can’t punch you.”

Daryl shrugs and picks at a hangnail.

“Are you in love with her?”

If Daryl were in the process of eating something, he’d choke on his food. As it is, he makes a weird wheezing sound and snaps, “The fuck you sayin’? You been watchin’ too many chick flicks or some shit?”

“I dunno,” Rick says with a heavy dose of irony. “You watch _Mamma Mia_ lately?”

Daryl flips him off.  

Rick looks on as Judith plants her fists in the mattress pad and tries to lift up with her arms. “So, are you?”

“Man, jus’ fuckin’ drop it.”

“Daryl,” Rick says, voice going all steely Clint Eastwood, “I’ve known Beth her whole damn life. She’s family. I think I got a right to ask a couple’a questions.”

Salt. Wound. “We ain’t datin’ or nothin’.”

“Not what I asked.”

Daryl stares blankly at the TV screen. Huh. _Columbo_ ’s on. He’s always liked that show.  

“Daryl.”

Daryl comes out of his daze to snap, “You perp sweatin’ me or somethin’?” But then he slumps. “Jesus Christ. I dunno.”

“You don’t _know_?”

What’s left of Daryl’s patience frays. “Yeah, said I _don’t fuckin’ know_. Never been in love or whatever before. The fuck I got to compare this to?”

“Yeah.” Rick sounds like he’s thinking hard about something. “Yeah, and that’s another thing. Never seen you interested in a woman before. Or a man, for that matter.”

Yeah, Daryl knows. Fuck, does he know. He never had much sex, and when he did, it was to scratch an itch, or because it felt like the thing to do. Forget sex, he can’t even say for certain if he’s had a _crush_ on anyone before.

He knows that he’s attracted to Beth. Knows that he likes her too damn much. Does that add up to love? Who the fuck is he to say?

Rick finally drops it. For now. “So she’s keepin’ it, huh?”

Daryl grunts. Pretends to watch Columbo fake-bumble his way past the crook of the week’s defenses.

“An’ you’re gonna help her out.”

Another grunt.

“Anyone else know yet?”

“Her sister,” Daryl says grudgingly. “An’ Merle.”

“Hell. Don’t envy you that.” Daryl can’t tell if Rick’s talking about Maggie or Merle, but honestly, both are harrowing in their own unique ways, so Daryl just sighs and nods.

“Hershel don’t know?”

Daryl picks at a piece of dead skin on his lower lip. “Beth wanted to work up to it.”

Daryl glances at the crib: Judith lifts her torso off the mattress, only to collapse abruptly onto her stomach. Rick goes up to get her and bring her back to the recliner with him, propping her up in his lap. “Y’know, I’ve known Hershel for pretty much my whole life.”

“Yeah,” says Daryl. Rick used to be a farmhand at the Greene property before going on to become a cop. “I know.”

“So I know he’s a good man.”

“Mhm.”

“So I know he’ll come around to you an’ Beth.”

 _There is no me and Beth_ , is what Daryl wants to say, but he gets distracted by the implication that Hershel Greene could ever accept some dirty old redneck impregnating his youngest daughter. He snorts to let Rick know what he thinks about that.

But Rick just shrugs. “Not sayin’ it’ll be easy. Just sayin’ it’ll be okay in the end. Hershel’ll come around, for Beth’s sake.”  

“Wouldn’t bet on it.”  

“Hey. Between you an’ me, who knows Hershel best?”

Daryl can’t even argue that point, which is irritating. “What about Carl?” he challenges.

Rick’s mouth twists into a sardonic smile. “Carl might be a harder sell, but Beth’ll work on him. Besides, he cares about you too much to stay mad for long.”  

Daryl flushes and sinks into a deeper slump. “Wonder who wants to hit me more—you or the kid.”

Rick sighs and rubs Judith’s back. “Told you, Daryl. Nobody’s gonna hit you.”

Daryl shrugs.

“Beth’s family, but you’re family, too. We’re good, s’long as you stand by that girl. I mean it.”

Daryl’s got a funny tickling feeling under his sternum. He elects to ignore it.

Rick moves over to the couch and deposits Judith in Daryl’s lap. She curls into him, yawning, and his hands automatically come up to support her weight. He stares down at her, at this little girl who already looks so much like Lori, and the tickling in his chest blooms into an ache.

He still doesn’t know how he feels about the thing growing inside of Beth, but he’s abruptly certain of this much: when it’s born, he hopes it’ll look exactly like its momma. Hopes there’ll be nothing of the Dixon line in Beth’s baby. Fucking _prays_ for it.

“’Sides,” Rick says easily, “if I hit you, it’ll just hurt for a while and then get better. But a baby? Best get plenty’a sleep while you still can, brother, ’cause you won’t be gettin’ any more of it once that kid’s been born.”  

Well, fuck.

 

* * *

 

Carl’s bedroom door is shut, but Beth doesn’t jiggle the knob to check if it’s locked or not. She’s not gonna invade his space. That’d just make him angrier.

So she folds herself onto the floor and pretzels her legs, hardwood cool against her bare calves. Sunlight streams through the window at the other end of the hallway, highlighting dust motes, and Beth wastes a few seconds passing her fingers through them while she tries to figure out what she wants to say.

In the end, she goes with, “Please don’t be mad at Daryl. He didn’t do anythin’ wrong.” 

As expected, her first attempt gets no reaction. Hell, for all she knows, Carl’s got his headphones on.

Beth drops her hand and folds it over her settled stomach, then moves it lower to cup her abdomen. She wonders when she’s gonna start showing. From what she’s read up on, first pregnancies don’t show as early on as the ones that come after.

“I understand why you’re upset, though. We kept somethin’ important from you. Bein’ outta the loop sucks.”

Beth’s ears prick at the creak of floorboards. Could be that Carl’s just moving idly around. Could also be that he’s ventured closer to the door. Beth considers lying flat to peek under the crack, but decides that it’d be awkward if Carl caught her at it.

“It sucks to be left out,” Beth tells the shut door, “but this was between me an’ Daryl. When we decided to tell other people was our business. And I didn’t—I didn’t wanna tell anyone until I decided for sure that I was gonna keep it.” Beth smiles and hopes that Carl can hear it in her voice. “Hey, maybe you can babysit for _me_ one day.”

Still nothing, but Beth decides to give it one more try. “Daryl won’t say anythin’, but it’ll hurt his feelings if you decide to ignore him or treat him bad over this. He cares about you a lot, Carl. Please don’t do this to him.”

The lock clicks, and then the door eases open. Carl stares down his nose at Beth, and the look on his face isn’t _open_ , but neither is it entirely shut off.

So that’s something.

Beth smiles tentatively before bracing a hand on the floor and pushing to her feet. She opens her mouth, but Carl cuts her off.

“What’re you gonna name it?”

Um. Okay. “What am I gonna name the baby? I…I dunno. I mean. It’s still pretty early, ain’t it? I got plenty of time to think up a list of names.” Plus she’ll want to consult with Daryl. She thinks she should get the final say on names, but she doesn’t want to settle on something that Daryl will hate, either.

Carl shuffles from foot to foot. “My mom and dad, they kept putting it off, so I had to be the one to think up a name for Judith.”

Beth nods. “Yeah, I remember.” It gives her a pang to think of how Lori wasn’t around to name her baby, but it’s good, too, that Carl can talk about his mother at all.

Carl gives a jerky nod. “So you should think of one now.”

Oh.

“Carl,” Beth says, voice cracking a little, “nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

Carl glares at his feet. “You don’t know that.”

“You’re right,” Beth admits, “I don’t. But I know that there isn’t a history of difficult pregnancy in my family. I know that my momma did just fine with me an’ Shawn. I’ll be fine, too.”

Carl just keeps on glaring at his feet, but Beth gets the feeling he’s trying not to cry. She wraps him up in a hug, and he leans into her for a second before pulling back.

“You wanna go downstairs?” she asks. “Ain’t you supposed to be meetin’ up with Sophia?”

Carl shrugs. “Don’t feel like going out now. Think I just wanna stay in.”

“You want me to stay with you?”

Carl chews on his lip. “If you wanna.”

Beth takes his hand and tugs him towards the stairs, but he digs in his heels.

“You better be fine,” he says, and it sounds like an order. “Or I swear I’ll kick Daryl’s ass.”

Beth chokes on a laugh. “I know who I’d bet on to win that fight.”  

Carl smirks a little, and they head downstairs. Rick and Daryl are pretending to watch an episode of _Columbo_ , and Daryl’s got Judith in his lap. It does something funny to Beth’s heart, seeing him like that. Thinking of their baby in Judith’s place.

“Well,” she says, “’least you didn’t kill each other.”

Rick smiles. “Promised we wouldn’t.”

Carl lets go of Beth’s hand and heads for the couch. He stops in front of Daryl, and they size each other up. After a minute of intense staring, Carl gives Daryl a little nod, which Daryl returns. And then Carl sits down between Daryl and his dad, and that seems to be that.

Beth rolls her eyes. _Men_.

But then she licks her teeth and grimaces. “Uh, Mr. Grimes? Could I have that ginger ale, please?”

Rick practically falls over himself to accommodate her. “Sure thing, honey.”

“I know where the fridge is, Mr. Grimes.”

“Sure you do,” Rick says absently, pressing his hand to the small of Beth’s back to steer her into the kitchen. Beth steals one last look at Daryl, then gives in with a sigh.  

Beth pours herself a glass of tap water while Rick paws through the fridge, muttering to himself. She swishes it around in her mouth, washing the taste of vomit off her tongue, before spitting it out in the sink.

So, okay. Today could’ve gone worse. Much, much worse. If she could do this, then she can tell her dad. It’ll be fine. Her dad loves her unconditionally. This won’t change that.

“Beth?”

Beth turns to Rick, who’s got a two-liter bottle of Canada Dry in his hands and a concerned look on his face. “You okay, honey?”

Beth nods without much conviction.

Rick sets the bottle of ginger ale down on the counter and reaches for her, hugging her the way she hugged Carl. She burrows into him and takes a deep, shuddering breath, fingers too loose around her glass.

“It’s gonna be okay, honey. It’ll be okay.”

Beth wishes she felt as confident as Rick sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: ginger ale _is_ an anti-emetic, but it's still carbonated, so it won't necessarily settle an upset stomach. 
> 
> And thank you for reading ❤️


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit, fan, etc.

**Sunday, July 21 st**

 

Beth’s phone is vibrating, but since she’s too busy fighting off a lurching wave of nausea to uncurl from the miserable ball she’s in and answer it, she lets the call go to voicemail. If whoever it is wants to talk to her that badly, they can just leave a message and wait.

Her phone goes quiet only to start buzzing again not five seconds later, and that’s. That’s when Beth starts to get concerned.

She sticks her head out of her nest of blankets and squints at her nightstand. Most people except her dad just text her when they want to get a hold of her, and if the person on the other end of the line can’t wait for Beth to check her messages, then whatever it is could be serious. Could be an emergency. Dad and Maggie should be at church right now, but something could’ve happened on the way there or the way back.

Beth thinks of accidents, of cars pretzeled around tree trunks, and she sits up so fast her stomach jolts. Nothing comes up, though, which is good, because Beth doesn’t have the time to shut her eyes and breathe through the sickness. She unplugs her phone from its charger and checks the readout cursorily, frowning at the name on the screen.

Well, at least she can calm down a little now.

Accepting the call, Beth brings the phone to her ear and says, a little dubiously, “Amy?”

Amy was a grade ahead of her in school, and Beth likes her a lot, but she’s been a little withdrawn from her school friends ever since her mom and Shawn passed, so it’s not like Amy to randomly call her up just because. Besides, whenever Amy _does_ want to talk to Beth, she just texts her, same as every other normal person their age.

Instead of saying hi, though, Amy rushes out, all in one breath, “DidSheriffGrimesknockyouup?”

Beth’s stomach pitches, but not on account of her morning sickness. “I’m gonna kill Jimmy.” This is what she gets for thinking the best of people and assuming that Jimmy had learned his lesson.

But Amy just goes, “Huh? What’s Jimmy got to do with anything?”

Beth’s knotted stomach loosens, but only for a second, because if Amy didn’t hear this from Jimmy, then she must have heard it from somebody else. “Wait, what? If Jimmy didn’t tell you, who did?”

Amy makes a noise that’s one frequency away from only being audible to dogs. “ _So it’s true_?”

Beth smooths her blankets out across her legs and pulls Bangles into her lap. “Just answer the question, Amy.”

To Amy’s credit, she does as she’s asked, although she still sounds a little giddy when she says, “Spencer Monroe’s been telling everyone that he saw you at the Planned Parenthood with Sheriff Grimes.”

Beth frowns. “Who’s Spencer Monroe?” The name rings a vague bell, but Beth was too focused on Jimmy that day to pay much attention to his band of merry meatheads.

“Mayor’s kid.”  

Beth makes a noise of acknowledgement, then sighs and says, “Mr. Grimes didn’t knock me up.”

“Oh,” says Amy, and Beth can’t tell if she’s disappointed or relieved. “Yeah, I figured Spencer was bullshitting me. I just wanted to call you and check—”

“But I am pregnant.”

Amy makes a noise like she’s hocking something up, and, concerned that she’s choking on her breakfast, Beth says, “Ames? You okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” Amy’s wheezing a little, but at least she no longer sounds as if she’s gonna require the Heimlich to keep breathing. “What about _you_? You’re the one who’s gone all _Teen Mom_!”

Beth wrinkles her nose. “C’mon, Ames, nobody watches that show anymore.”

“That is _so_ not the point.” Then, “Wait a second. If Sheriff Grimes isn’t the dad, then who _is_? Unless you’re gonna try and tell me that this is some kinda immaculate conception-type deal.”

“I ain’t Catholic,” Beth reminds her, even as she wishes that her morning sickness would make a timely reappearance and give her an excuse to exit this conversation.

But she can’t chicken out now, and she’s not ashamed of Daryl or what she did with him, so she says, “It’s Daryl Dixon’s.”

But Amy just says, “Whose?”

“Mr. Grimes’s buddy.”

“His deputy?”

“No, that’s Shane Walsh.” And, Jesus: no way, never, absolutely _not_. “Daryl’s the quiet one with the long hair.”  

“The scary-looking guy with the squint?”

Beth guesses that’s as good a descriptor as any, even if it doesn’t do Daryl much justice once you get to know him. “Yeah. That’s him.”  

“Jeez, Beth.” Amy sounds a little awed, of all things. “How’d you pull _that_ off?”

People keep asking her that. “I dunno. Just went for it, I guess.”

“I’ll bet,” says Amy. “But, like—are you okay? D’you need any help with anything?”

Only everything, but Beth says, “Nah, I’m fine. I’ve got Daryl.” And Glenn and Maggie and Rick and Carl. God, but she’s damn lucky to have the support system she does.

“What about your dad? You tell him yet or what?”

“…I’m workin’ on it.”

“Oh. Well, if he kicks you out, you can always come stay with me and Andrea.”

“He’s not gonna kick me out,” Beth says firmly. “But thanks. Really.”

“No problem.”

Speaking of her dad, he’s gonna be home from church soon, which means that Beth’s gotta get dressed and ready. “Did you need anything else?”

“Well,” Amy stalls. “I guess I’m curious about one thing—but you don’t have to answer if you don’t wanna. I mean, it’s kinda awkward.”  

No more awkward than telling her dad that he’s going to be the grandfather of a bouncing baby Dixon. “Nah, go ahead.”

Beat. “How big was it?”

 _Nope._ “I’m hanging up now.”

“Okay, _okay_ , but has your vagina turned blue yet? Because I’ve heard that can happen.” 

“ _I’m hanging up now_ ,” Beth says, once more with feeling, before doing exactly that.

Except then her phone starts buzzing again.

Jeez Louise, since when is she this popular? There must be something in the water supply.

Beth frowns at the readout for a second, then accepts the call and says, warily, “Jimmy? What—”

“I swear I didn’t do it!”

Beth has no idea what he’s talking about, but his tone’s enough to put her on instant alert. “Do what?”

“You don’t know?” Jimmy asks, voice cracking like he’s fourteen instead of eighteen.

Beth just about throttles poor Bangles, she’s holding onto him so tight. “If I _knew_ , I wouldn’t be _askin’_.” Wait a second. “Aren’t you at church?”

“Was,” Jimmy says, still with that wavering quality to his voice. “Services ended a couple’a minutes ago.” He clears his throat. “It—it got back. To your dad. Y’know, about the baby.”

Oh.

“…An’ I swear I didn’t do it, but Spencer Monroe’s granny came up to your daddy an’ asked what he thought he was doin’, lettin’ his youngest girl go an’ get herself knocked up outta wedlock.” Beth could be imagining it, but she swears Jimmy’s crying. “I would’a stopped her if I could, Beth, I swear.”

Beth blinks, and the bare stretch of wall across from her bed comes in and out of focus. “It’s okay, Jimmy. I believe you.”

“Uh. You do?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Um, Beth?” Jimmy makes a noise like he’s sucking up snot, then says, haltingly, “Are you okay? You need me to come pick you up or somethin’?”

Beth’s phone vibrates, signaling that she’s received a text. It’s done that several times now within the last couple of minutes, but for some reason, she never really noticed until now. “Huh? No, I’m good.”

“Well, d’you want me to come over anyways? I mean, your daddy oughta be on his way back by now, so…”

Jimmy’s offering to hold her hand through this. To stick by her. That’s sweet of him. Maybe he’s not a totally lost cause, after all.

But Beth says, “No, I’m okay, really. I was gonna tell him today, anyways.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Jimmy, seriously, I’m fine. I gotta—I gotta go, though.”

“Beth—”

Beth hangs up. It’s rude of her, especially considering that Jimmy went out of his way to let her know what was up, but she just. Can’t deal with him right now.

Can’t deal with much of anyone.

She brings up her text log. All of her recent messages are from Maggie. There’re a couple of missed calls, too, also from Maggie.

_Beth, Dad knows. That damn Monroe woman came up to him and started flapping her gums. I couldn’t stop her._

_Beth, answer your phone_

_BETH_

_GOD DAMMIT BETH_

_We’re on our way back. Seriously, answer your damn phone._

Beth _should_ answer her phone. She’s got Maggie worried half to death. But she just—

She’s gotta get out of here.

She sets Bangles down and climbs out of bed, shoving her bare feet into her sneakers and grabbing her housekey off her nightstand. She spares a second to tie her laces into sloppy bows, and then she’s clipping down the stairs and out the front door, the fresh morning air hitting her like a slap to the face.

She stumbles to a halt, taking in her daddy’s land like she’s never seen it before. Barn, silo, sheds, horses and cattle grazing in the distance. Open cultivated fields that eventually turn wilder, woods spreading out in all directions like a green cape. Woods that Beth practically grew up in. Woods that she used to play in when she was little, pretending that she was an exiled princess like Snow White or Briar Rose.

Beth tucks her phone and her key into her pockets. Mind made up, she heads for the tree line.

She keeps going until the canopy overhead blocks out all but a few stray shafts of yellow sunlight, keeps going until she risks getting lost, but she won’t. She’s not Daryl—her sense of direction isn’t the best, and she couldn’t track a deer if it was five feet in front of her—but she knows these woods as well as she knows her family’s tracts of farmland, and she couldn’t get lost in here if she tried.

The underbrush scratches her bare legs—she didn’t bother changing out of the shorts she went to sleep in—but she barely even feels it. She’s gone numb.

 _It’ll be okay_ , she keeps telling herself. _It’s just Dad. It’ll be okay._

Yeah. Sure. So why’s she running away?

She’s got good endurance from helping out on the farm, but she’s only human, and eventually, a stitch in her side pierces her numb cloud like a needle in a vein. She eases from her light jog into a walk, and then stops moving altogether. She plunks down on a log, and the mossy bark digs into the backs of her thighs, but, again, that’s not her primary concern. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and composes a message for Maggie.

_Went for a walk in the woods. I’m okay. Just need time to think. Don’t put out a missing person’s report just yet._

And, hey. If they get too worried, they can always send Daryl out after her. He could probably track her to the ends of the earth if he wanted to.

Daryl.

She should leave him alone. It’s a Sunday, but he could still be busy. Could be sleeping in, since he works so hard, and he’s probably lost a lot of sleep anyway over her and her condition anyway. He could be taking Dog for a walk or something. Point is, he doesn’t need to deal with any more of Beth’s crap.

Still, she winds up sending him a message—just one pitiful little sentence.

_Can I call you?_

The worst he can do is tell her no.

He reads the message, but he doesn’t answer it right away, and Beth’s stomach clenches anxiously. Hell, she really, _really_ doesn’t want to throw up in the woods—

Her phone buzzes, and it keeps buzzing. Daryl’s calling her.

Beth fumbles to accept the call, but before she can get a word in, Daryl says, “Y’alright?”

And it’s funny, because as soon as she hears his voice, she _is_. Or at least, she’s better than she was a minute ago.

“Yeah, I.” Beth clears her throat. Tries to get comfortable on the log, which turns out to be a pointless endevour. “Sorry for botherin’ you.”

“Ain’t no bother,” he says gruffly, and Beth laughs a little unsteadily, because, Jesus. Was a time when Daryl made her feel like a pain in the ass just for breathing the same air as him, and now he’s saying that she isn’t. Saying it and _meaning_ it, by all accounts.

“What’s so damn funny?” Daryl grumps, and Beth laughs again, quieter this time.

“Nothin’,” she says, but the warmth right under her sternum manifests itself into words, and she winds up amending, “Was just thinkin’ about why I got a crush on you in the first place.”

There’s a beat of silence on Daryl’s end. “What.”   

“What, you think I came on to you just because?” Beth isn’t blushing, surprisingly, either because all the blood drained out of her face when Jimmy gave her the news, or because Daryl’s not here to look at her in that _way_ of his. “I’ve had a crush on you for _years_ , Daryl.”

Beth wonders if her phrasing isn’t lost on Daryl. _I’ve had_ instead of _I had_ , implying that she still does.

Can you even _call_ it a crush when your crush is the father of your future child?  

“You got a point?” Daryl sounds a little mean, but Beth knows he doesn’t intend to. He’s just feeling bashful, is all, and that pisses him off.

“Yeah, I do.” She just has to work up to it. “You wanna hear about when I started likin’ you?”  

“Nah, but I’ll bet you’ll tell me anyways.” It’s as good a ‘yes’ as Beth’s gonna get.

She smiles down at her sneakers. Props one foot on the opposite knee and fiddles with the laces.

“It was a couple’a years ago. Y’know, when things were. When things were still pretty bad.”

Daryl’s silent, but Beth knows that he knows what she’s talking about.

“I came over to sit for Rick for the first time in a while, only you an’ him wound up takin’ Carl on a fishin’ trip, an’ I spent the day with Lori. But before you left, we talked for a couple’a minutes. You were teachin’ Carl how to bow hunt, remember?”

“…Yeah.” Beth can tell that Daryl isn’t just saying it to please her; he means it. “I remember.”

“So you remember the bracelet you got for me.”

“…Told Rick not to tell you I’s the one who bought the damn thing.” 

“Yeah, I know, and that’s why I never thanked you for it, ’cause I didn’t wanna embarrass you. But I’m thankin’ you now.”

Beth can practically _hear_ Daryl squirm. “Was nothin’.”

“But it was,” Beth insists, because she feels very strongly about this. “You saw I was hurtin’, so you tried to cheer me up. You barely even knew me, but you did that for me. That’s everythin’.”

“ _Girl_.”

Beth flips her hand over and studies the thin white scar that bisects her wrist. “I still have the bracelet. You’ve probably seen me wear it. It’s my favorite.”

“Beth—”

“My dad knows.” Dead silence on the other end of the line, but not because Daryl hung up on her, or because the connection’s been lost. “I didn’t tell him. One of the boys we saw at the Planned Parenthood’s been runnin’ his mouth, and it got back to my dad.”

“ _Who_.” There’s a lot packed into that single syllable, and it almost makes Beth feel sorry for Spencer. _Almost_.

“Yeah, no, I ain’t tellin’ you.” Daryl makes a pissed-off noise, but Beth isn’t having it. “I don’t want you gettin’ in trouble, ’specially now that my dad knows. You gotta make a good first impression.”

“Think it’s too late for that.”

Beth shakes her head, even though Daryl can’t see her. “It’s never too late.” She scuffs her sneakers through a pile of earth. “Dad probably doesn’t even know that it’s yours, unless Maggie told him, and I don’t think she did. The guy who’s been spreadin’ it around seems to think its Rick’s.”

“So your daddy’s fixin’ to murder the damn sheriff, an’ it’s my fuckin’ fault.”

“I already told you, Daryl, it’s nobody’s fault. Stuff just happens sometimes.” Beth bends at the waist to scrape speckles of dirt off her sneakers’ white toes. “An’ he ain’t gonna kill Rick. My dad loves Rick, and anyways, he’s a reasonable man. He’ll want to hear the facts from me before he does anythin’ rash.”

“You sound real goddamn sure about that.”

“That’s ’cause I am.” Actually, she’s not, but at least she sounds convincing enough to fool Daryl. She should’ve been an actress.  

“Want me to come over?”

“Nah,” she lies. “It’s okay.”

“Don’t feel right. Lettin’ you do it on your own.”

Beth’s heart clenches, not with anxiety, but with a surge of affection.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she says, which, _understatement_. “It means a lot to me that you care. But I’m good. Promise.”

Daryl grumbles.

“I should go.” Beth slides off the log to sit on a patch of grass, and dew soaks through her shorts and into her underwear. She should probably care about that. “I’ll text you later, okay? If that’s alright.”

“…A’right.”

If they were an actual couple and not just co-parents, here’s where they’d say ‘I love you’ or something, but they _aren’t_ a couple, and even if they _were_ , Beth doesn’t know if either of them would be ready for that. So she just says, a little awkwardly, “Bye, then.”

“Bye,” says Daryl, and Beth hangs up before he can convince her to let him come get her.

Beth should get off her ass and start heading for home. She’s too far into the woods to hear any approaching cars, and Maggie hasn’t texted her back, so she has no way of knowing if her dad’s home yet.

She’s gotta go, but she just sits there, unable to find the will to move her legs and push up off the ground. It’s not that she doesn’t want to; it’s just that it feels like she physically _can’t_.

Executive dysfunction. That’s what her therapist called this.

Beth doesn’t look up when someone eases themselves down onto her vacated log with a soft grunt.

“I’m sorry.”

Hershel doesn’t say anything right away. Is he gearing up to yell at her? Beth doesn’t think so, because her father rarely shouts, and never at her, not at his little princess, not at the baby of the Greene clan. No, Hershel hardly ever gets _angry_ with Beth or Maggie. He does something worse.

He gets _disappointed_.

“If you’re sorry for lying to me by omission, you very well ought to be.” Hershel’s tone is amicable enough, but there’s a bedrock of steel underneath of it. “If you’re sorry about the child growing inside of you, well—it’s not as if you _chose_ to become pregnant. Although,” and here Hershel’s voice goes a little wry, “I suppose you were well aware of the risk.”  

Beth wants to hang her head. She doesn’t. “It’s not Mr. Grimes’s.”

“No.” Something like amusement softens Hershel’s quietly steely voice. “I didn’t think it was.”

Beth chews on her thumbnail. Wonders if Daryl’s bad habit is contagious or something. “You wanna know whose it is?”  

“I suppose I’ll find out one way or another.”

Beth opens her mouth to tell him, but it seems as if he’s got a few more things to say to her first. “I’ll admit, Bethy, it hurts me that you felt safe enough with Rick to tell him the truth before you told me. Have I done something to earn your mistrust?”

Beth finally twists around to face Hershel, and the look on his face is genuinely pained, hurt glistening in his eyes like an exposed nerve. He’s not trying to guilt trip her. Beth almost wishes he was; at least then she could get justifiably angry with him.

Beth clasps his knee, nails scratching at the nice pants he wears to church. “No, Daddy, you haven’t. It’s just—it’s a scary thing, an’ I was tryin’ to—I didn’t even know whether I was gonna keep it when I told Mr. Grimes about it. I just needed somebody to drive me to the Planned Parenthood, and he was there.”

“Scary,” Hershel repeats, face twisting like the word tastes bad on his tongue. “Have I ever done anything to scare you, Bethy?”

No, he hasn’t, but this is her _parent_ she’s talking about. That’s always going to be intimidating. It’s always going to make you wonder if this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. If this is what’s going to test a love that’s supposed to be unconditional.

“No, Daddy.” Beth thinks of her grandfather, of how her dad was so scared of _him_ that he turned to alcohol to dull the fear. “You haven’t.”

Hershel covers Beth’s hand with his. It’s an honest hand, her father’s, roughened from years of hard work. It’s a healing hand. It’s not a hand to flinch away from, or to be frightened of.

No. No, her father doesn’t scare her.  

But his looming disappointment does.

Hershel says, “This will be the most difficult undertaking of your life, you realize. Putting the pregnancy itself aside, parenthood is a full-time job, and it’s no walk in the park, raising another human being. No matter how hard you try, somewhere down the road, you’re going to hurt your child, and they’re going to hurt you.”

He doesn’t have to tell Beth that she’s hurt him by doing this. She gets the subtext.

“You could be the most devoted, loving parent in the world, and you’re still going to feel as if you could’ve done about a hundred things better than you did. You’re going to lose hours of sleep. You’re going to put yourself in financial debt. You’re going to feel like a disappointment.”  

Beth presses her cheek to the back of Hershel’s hand. With his other hand, he strokes her hair back from her face.

She’s only got one thing worth asking.

“Is it worth it?”

“It is—but only if it’s what you want.”

Beth’s eyes drift shut. “It’s what I want.”  

Hershel’s hand goes still. “Whose is it, Bethy?”

Beth smirks, just a little. “S’mine.” 

“Don’t you sass me, young lady.”

Beth lifts her head and looks into her father’s stern face.

“It’s Daryl Dixon’s.”

The stern look goes blank. For a second, Beth wonders if Hershel’s going to pull a Rick and say that, no, it _isn’t_ Daryl’s, that she must be joking.

Beth squeezes Hershel’s hand between both of hers. “I know how he looks, Daddy, but he’s a good man. Rick wouldn’t be friends with him if he wasn’t. And he didn’t hurt me or anythin’—he wouldn’t.”

Hershel’s brow lowers. His cheeks flush. “For how long have the two of you been carrying on like this?”

Oh, hell. “We haven’t been _carryin’ on_ , Daddy.” Beth’s face is boiling hot. She’d rather God strike her dead than talk to her dad about sex. “It was only—just the once, just last month.”  

“When?”

“…While you were at that convention in Savannah?”

Hershel’s lips tighten. “So you broke my trust and invited a man into my home while I was out.”

Beth’s not gonna cry. She’s _not_. “He’s a good man,” she insists instead of defending herself. “You know he is. You wouldn’t’a let him drive me home from Rick’s if he wasn’t.”

“Clearly I misjudged him.”

Beth pulls her hands away from Hershel’s and fists them in her lap. “No, you didn’t.”

“He’s twice your age, Bethy.”

Beth sticks out her chin. “You were almost twenty years older than Momma.”  

She regrets it as soon as she says it, hates herself for using her dead mother against her dad, and on the heels of that regret comes an intense longing for her momma. Annette might not’ve been pleased with this turn of events, but she was a reasonable woman, and she had a way of swaying Hershel that no one else did, not even Beth.

But her mother’s not around anymore. It’s all down to her.  

Hershel doesn’t look too upset at the mention of Annette, at least. He just frowns. “Are you in love with him, Beth?”

Would it make things better or worse if she said yes? She settles for, “I don’t know,” because it feels the most like the truth.

Hershel sighs and grips the bridge of his nose. “I don’t suppose he’s offered to make an honest woman out of you?”

Beth’s lips twist. “These ain’t the nineteen fifties, daddy. And besides, we aren’t…we ain’t like that. It’s like I told you: we haven’t even… _been_ together since the once.”

Hershel drops his hand and fixes Beth with an assessing squint. “Well. I suppose that’s one small comfort.”

That stings, but at least he believes her. “Please just…please just think things over before you do anythin’ rash. Please.”

Hershel’s eyes soften, but the hard set of his mouth doesn’t. “Make no mistake, Beth—I don’t approve of any part of this.” Beth’s lips wobble, and Hershel releases another sigh. “But I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to think it over some. In the meantime, though, I don’t want that man setting a single toe on my land, d’you hear me?”  

Beth grips the hems of her shorts. “I’m eighteen. You can’t tell me not to see him.”

Hershel’s lips twitch. “No,” he says. “No, I suppose that I can’t. But I _can_ order him off of my property.”

Beth knows that it’s the best she’s gonna get. Heaving a sigh, she pushes to her feet before taking Hershel’s hand and helping him up, too.

Beth’s phone buzzes in her pocket, but she ignores it, leaning on her dad a little as they go back the way they’d come, clinging to his hand like the little girl she isn’t.

And, well. If this didn’t go the way she wanted it to, at least it didn’t go completely pear shaped.

Only, it turns out she spoke too soon.

Her dad’s hand goes stiff in hers as soon as they clear the tree line, and Beth knows why. There’s a dusty truck parked in their drive, Daryl pacing back and forth in front of it like a caged panther, Maggie standing off to one side and looking at her phone.

Oh. Beth guesses that’s why her phone was buzzing.

For a second, Beth freezes like a rabbit under the eyes of a hawk. But then she lets go of her dad’s hand, and she’s walking, she’s jogging, she’s _sprinting_ , and Daryl stops pacing to stare at her, and she doesn’t know what she’s doing until she’s doing it, until she’s colliding with Daryl like a rom-com cliché. Daryl’s breath whuffs out, and he tenses, but Beth clings to him anyway, wrapping her arms around his middle and tucking her face into the crook of his shoulder to inhale the sweaty, musky smell of him. 

“Told you not to come,” she mumbles, and it’s supposed to be a reprimand, but she has to squeeze the words out past the lump in her throat.

Is she in love with him? No.

Not yet.

Daryl shrugs up and down. He doesn’t hug her back, exactly, possibly because her dad and Maggie are watching, but his hands cup her elbows and squeeze.

“Couldn’t letcha do this on your own,” he mumbles, breath stirring her unbound hair.  

Beth doesn’t say anything, just burrows closer. See, this? This is the kind of man Daryl Dixon is. The good kind. The _best_.

Her dad has to see that. He _has_ to.

Daryl lets her go and shuffles back, breaking the contact, and Beth knows why. She turns to face her approaching dad even as Maggie comes up to stand beside her and take her hand.

It’s funny, how a man as warm as Hershel Greene is capable of summoning so much ice into his eyes. “Daryl Dixon, I presume.”

Beth has to make a conscious effort not to roll her eyes. _Way to be overdramatic, Dad._

“Yes, sir. We’ve met.” Beth suspects that it’s taking every ounce of formidable will Daryl’s got not to shuffle his feet like a naughty child.

“Yes, we have, indeed. That was well before you impregnated my youngest daughter, of course.”

Daryl’s shoulders move up and down again, more a flinch than a shrug, and Beth says, “Dad, don’t start—”

But Hershel raises a hand, and Beth automatically shuts her mouth. “Now, Rick and Beth both think mighty highly of you, and it’s on their accounts that I’m deferring my judgment. Otherwise, I’d be chasing you off my property with a loaded shotgun, and make no mistake.”

Daryl twitches his head up and down, a stilted kid of nod. “Yes, sir.”

Beth wonders if it physically pains Daryl to call people ‘sir.’ Probably it does. Still, he’s doing it for her sake.

Hershel doesn’t look pleased, exactly, but neither does he look likely to shoot Daryl. “In the meantime, I want you off my land—and I don’t think it would hurt any for you and Beth to spend some time apart.”

Beth thought she was resigned to this, thought she could go along with it if it meant that her dad would warm up to Daryl in the long run, but she’s watching Daryl in her periphery, so she catches his there-and-gone flinch. What really gets to her is that he doesn’t fight it. He thinks he _deserves_ to be treated this way, to be chased off like a stray mutt.

And so, driven by the same protectiveness she felt when Maggie insulted Daryl, Beth blurts, “Don’t talk to him like that.”

Maggie’s hand tightens around Beth’s, and Hershel’s eyes flare wide before narrowing again. “Young lady, I know you aren’t talking to _me_ like that.”

Apparently, she is. “I already told you, I’m an adult. You can’t tell me where to go or who not to see, and if you’re gonna chase Daryl off your land, then I’m goin’ with him.”

Maggie makes a choked noise, and Hershel says, “Beth, don’t be rash.”

Oh, she’ll show him _rash_.  

Beth turns to Daryl, who’s already looking at her. She can’t decipher that look, and she doesn’t have the time to, so she just says, “Take me home with you.”

Daryl edges a sidelong look at Hershel like he thinks he’s gonna break out the shotgun for real this time. “Beth,” he says, “you don’t gotta—”

Yeah, she does, because if she backs down now, her dad will never take her seriously. “C’mon, please?”

Daryl doesn’t say anything. Just looks at Beth from under his bangs before heaving the truck’s passenger side door open and striding around to the other side.

Beth squeezes Maggie’s hand before letting her go. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

Maggie doesn’t look too pleased with the situation, but she nods. Beth doesn’t even spare her dad a last glance before climbing into the truck and clipping the door shut.  

Daryl plugs his keys into the ignition, then hesitates. “You sure you don’t wanna stop and getcha stuff?”

Right. Beth’s still in her pajamas. She’s wearing sneakers but no socks, and the only personal effects she’s got with her are her phone and her housekey.

But she shakes her head, tangled hair rustling along her shoulders. “Nah. I just wanna go.”

Daryl doesn’t waste another second trying to convince Beth to put on a bra and some socks, at least. He turns the engine over, throws the truck into gear, and hooks it into a U-turn. He does what Beth asked of him.

He goes, and he takes her with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A more detailed account of how Beth got her favorite bracelet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18432245). 
> 
> If you're too shy to comment but would still like to contact me privately, I'm on [Dreamwidth](https://gutsforgarters.dreamwidth.org/), [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/gutsforgarters), and [Tumblr](https://mygutsforgarters.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Everything's gonna be okay, fam. Everything's gonna be okay 💖


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regularly scheduled nonsense.

**Sunday, July 21 st**

Beth sifts her spoon through her bowl of Cheerios and sneaks a sidelong look at the other two occupants of the Dixons’ couch.

Daryl’s slumped on the middle cushion, knees spread, arms crossed, unfocused eyes pointed in the general direction of the TV, which is playing _Return of the Killer Tomatoes_ (because apparently there’s more than one of these movies?) with the volume turned down low. Merle’s got his nose stuck in a romance novel, of all things; stubby fingers curled around a coffee mug with a handle shaped like a _C_ and the letters _U_ , _N_ , and _T_ painted on the side. Neither of them have said anything to each other or to Beth since she sat down to eat her cereal.

All told, it’s the most awkward breakfast Beth’s ever had, and she’s counting the morning after that time she chucked Maggie’s birth control pills in the duck pond in a fit of pre-adolescent sexual panic.

So, understandably, she doesn’t hesitate to jump to her feet when she hears the knock on the front door. She sets her half-empty bowl of cereal down on the end table next to her glass of full-fat milk, then fists her hands on her hips and clears her throat.

“I’ll bet that’s Maggie,” Beth says once Daryl and Merle have fixed her with eerily similar disinterested looks. “She probably won’t be stayin’ for long, but I’d really appreciate it if y’all were to mind your manners for the five minutes it’ll take her to drop off my stuff. That ain’t too tall an order, now, is it?”

Even though Beth ostensibly addressed her warning (plea?) to both Dixon brothers, it was mostly for Merle’s benefit. He must get the subtext, because he takes a conspicuous slurp of coffee and says, “I look like I got the time or the inclination to shoot the breeze with your big sister, girl? I’m jus’ tryna finish my book in peace, here.”

Daryl squints dubiously at Merle, but Beth has to bite back a smile. Maybe she’s giving Merle too much credit, but she swears that this is his way of being _nice_ to her, or at least decent. Come to think of it, he hasn’t even been all that rude to her so far, and if Merle can be decent to Beth, then surely he can be decent to Maggie for the duration of her hopefully short visit.

There’s another rap on the door, this one slightly more urgent than the last, and Beth rushes to answer it before Maggie concludes that Daryl and Merle must have killed and eaten her and calls the police.

Dog was dozing in his bed, but now he sits up, ears pricked, eyes alert and interested. Beth pats his head on her way to get the door, ordering him gently (and possibly fruitlessly) to sit and stay. She strains up on her tiptoes to take a gander through the door’s peephole, then does a double take.

Thinking that she probably should’ve expected this, Beth unlocks the door and heaves it open, eyes roving from Glenn to Maggie and back again. They’ve both got duffels slung over their shoulders, Maggie’s holding Beth’s blue backpack by its straps, and Glenn’s got a plastic shopping bag dangling from his fingers.

“Uh.” Beth blinks. “Hey. I wasn’t expectin’ the both of y’all.”

Maggie tugs her mouth into a strained half smile. “Surprise? I needed the extra hands, so I bullied Glenn into makin’ himself useful.”

“Hey,” says Glenn. “There was no bullying involved. I totally volunteered my pack mule services, and I fully expect to be paid in a week’s worth of free pizza.”

“Gonna turn into a pizza one of these days,” says Maggie, and Beth giggles as Glenn pretends to look insulted. But the levity drops away from Maggie’s face in the next second, and she starts up chewing on her lower lip. “Can we, uh. Can we come in?”

It’s weird, hearing someone ask for her permission to enter Daryl’s house as if it’s _her_ house, too. But of course Maggie didn’t mean it that way. Beth’s the one who answered the door, so who else is Maggie gonna ask?

 _And_ she’s overthinking things. “Yeah, sorry, of course.” She stands to one side to make room, pressing herself flush with the door so Glenn and Maggie don’t inadvertently smack her with the full-to-bursting duffel bags. “Jeez, Mags. You pack my entire closet or what?” Frankly, Beth’s not even sure if her closet’s got enough clothes _in_ it to fill both those bags. Did Glenn and Maggie stop at Walmart on the way here?

“Hey, I dunno how long you’ll be stayin’ here for, so I erred on the side of cau— _oof_.” Maggie reels back a step when Dog collides with her middle, and Glenn scrambles to right her without dropping the duffel or his shopping bag, baseball cap getting knocked askew in the process.

“Sorry!” Beth rushes to pry Dog off of Maggie and gets licked on the cheek for her troubles. “I forgot to warn you about Dog.”

“S’alright,” Maggie says, grimacing when Dog tries to stick his tongue in her mouth. “Don’t think he’s inclined to do anything worse than lick me to death.”

But Maggie’s saved when Daryl joins the fray and gets his fingers hooked in Dog’s collar. “Sit,” he rumbles, and Dog falls back on his haunches, tongue lolling out of his mouth in an unrepentant canine grin. Daryl snaps his fingers and points, but Dog trots past his bed in favor of jumping onto the couch and sticking his nose in an unamused Merle’s armpit.

Daryl glares after him, exasperated, and Beth’s mouth ticks into a smirk. “Close enough, I guess?” she says, and when Daryl fixes that glare on _her_ , she giggles.

Maggie clears her throat pointedly, and Beth jumps like she was just caught making out with Daryl in the hayloft, which…intriguing fantasy, but not one she should be having in front of her sister and her sister’s boyfriend.

So Beth makes an awkward gesture and says, “Uh, Daryl—this is my sister Maggie and her boyfriend Glenn, but, uh. I guess y’all’ve met already.”

Daryl and Maggie are too busy sizing each other up to do anything useful, so it falls to Glenn to say, “Uh, yeah, we have. Good to see you, man.”

Daryl tears his eyes away from Maggie long enough to give Glenn a stilted nod. “Hey.”

Glenn peers over Daryl’s shoulder. “Hey, uh. Is that your brother? I don’t think we’ve met—”

“Trust me,” says Daryl, “you don’t wanna.”

“I heard that,” says Merle.

“Yeah, Daryl and I’ve met,” Maggie says abruptly, two steps behind like she’s just now processing what Beth said. “Of course, that was _before_ he _inseminated my sister_.”

Daryl doesn’t flinch, exactly, but his chin dips a little, and he doesn’t offer a retort.

And apparently having decided that it falls to _him_ to offer up a witty rejoinder, Merle says, “You gonna strain somethin’, you clutch them pearls any tighter.”

Maggie looks at Merle like he’s shit on the bottom of her shoe. “Excuse me, was I speaking to you? No? Then mind your business.”

Daryl bristles, clearly finding it easier to defend his brother than himself. “Hey. Watch your damn mouth.”

Maggie advances a step like she’s thinking of getting right in Daryl’s face. Or of _punching_ him in the face. “ _You_ watch _your_ mouth, you goddamn—”

Okay, no. Beth’s gotta put a stop to this before it can escalate any further. “Maggie,” she says, “you’re my sister, and I love you, but you need to _back_. _Off_.”

Maggie’s mouth drops open, and Daryl looks at Beth like—

She’s not sure.

“Hey, so.” Glenn’s voice is too bright, and his strained smile wavers when everyone turns their attention to him. “I dunno about Maggie, but my shoulder’s starting to hurt. There somewhere we can set these down?”

God bless Glenn Rhee. “You can put ’em in Daryl’s bedroom. Thanks, Glenn.”

Maggie’s mouth puckers like she just sucked on a lemon. “His _bedroom_ , huh?”

It’s not what Maggie thinks, but you know what? Even if it _was_ , it still wouldn’t be any of her damn business. “Yeah,” says Beth. “Down the hallway, second door on the left. You need me to show you?”

But Daryl says, “I’ll get it,” and relieves Glenn and Maggie of their respective duffel bags before they can protest. Hooking them both over his shoulder, he stalks through the living room and down the hallway. Maggie watches him go, arms crossed, face set.

Glenn coughs, and when Beth turns to look at him, he shakes his shopping bag. Whatever’s inside of it rattles. “Picked something up for you on the way here,” he says, handing it over.

“Thanks,” Beth says, a little confused as she shucks the plastic off of whatever’s inside.

Glenn shrugs. “Don’t get too excited. Not like it’s a videogame.”

No, it isn’t. It’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins, is what it is. Beth stares at it, then stares at it some more. Her eyes feel hot.

“Thanks,” she says, voice cracking a little, and hugs Glenn around his neck. Maggie’s one lucky woman—which makes Beth lucky by association.

Glenn coils his arms around Beth’s waist and gives her a gentle squeeze. “No big deal,” he says when Beth pulls back. “Save it for when I bring a wholesale pack of diapers to the baby shower.”

Right. Baby shower. That’s gonna be a thing further down the line, isn’t it? Baby shower, OB/GYN appointments, learning to drive and finding a job—

Keeping the peace between Maggie and Daryl.  

Speaking of.

“Uh, Glenn?” Glenn was frowning with open concern at Maggie, but he turns to Beth when she calls for his attention. “You mind if I talk with Maggie outside for a bit? I don’t wanna—”

“No, sure! Go ahead. I’ll just, uh.” Glenn takes Beth’s bottle of vitamins and clutches it to his chest like a lifeline. “Go ask Daryl where I should put this, I guess.” And before Maggie can argue, he’s off like a shot.

“C’mon,” Beth says, and when she hooks her fingers around Maggie’s wrist and tugs, she’s met with no resistance. She leads the way onto the deck, then releases Maggie and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not askin’ the two of you to best friends or anythin’ like that, but y’all need to learn to get along.”

Maggie crosses her arms, too, Beth’s backpack still slung over the crook of her elbow. “Excuse the hell outta me for not wantin’ to make nice with the guy who broke up my family.”

Good Lord, but Maggie’s making it sound like Daryl’s the other woman to Beth’s straying husband. “He didn’t _break up_ anythin’. I’m the one who decided to leave. I’m pretty sure Daryl would’a been happier if I’d just stayed where I was.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “You tellin’ me he ain’t pleased as punch to have a lil’ woman around the house? Somebody to iron his underwear for him?”

Who is she, June Cleaver? “Nah. I already offered to help around the house, but Daryl said no.” Beth glares at her sneakers; the laces are starting to come undone again. “I feel like a freeloader.”

“So come home, if you don’t like feelin’ that way.”

Beth looks up sharply, but Maggie’s face isn’t angry, or challenging. It’s sad. Her eyes are wide and earnest and maybe a little damp. Looking at them makes Beth’s heart clench.  

“You know I can’t,” Beth says, uncrossing her arms to brush her fingers over the back of Maggie’s knuckles.

Maggie wraps her hand around Beth’s. “Yes, you can. Dad wouldn’t turn you away if you decided to come back.”

Beth knows he wouldn’t, but that’s not the point. “He won’t take me seriously if I come crawlin’ back on the same day I left.”

Maggie’s hand tightens like a snare. “So, what? You’re gonna wait and see which one of you can hold out the longest before the other gets over their pride and apologizes? You’re a fine pair of mules, the both of y’all.”

Beth smirks a little. “You’re one to talk.”

Maggie doesn’t deny it, at least. “He wants you to come home.”

“He tell you that?”

Maggie hesitates, but in the end, she admits, “No, he didn’t—but he doesn’t have to. You’re his baby girl, Beth. He doesn’t wanna lose you.” The ‘too’ hangs unspoken between them, ringing clear as a bell. It makes Beth feel awful, just like she feels awful for forcing herself on Daryl the way she has, but she’s out of good choices. All she’s got left are ‘bad’ and ‘worse.’

“I already told you, Maggie.” Beth’s whispering now, even though she’s pretty sure that Daryl would only be able to make out the hum of her voice from inside the house. “ _I_ came on to _him_. None of this would’a happened if I’d just left well enough alone. Daryl’s sticking by me, so I gotta stick by _him_.”

Maggie sighs. “God help that baby of yours if it turns out to be half as stubborn as you.”

Beth’s smile creeps up on her. “That your way of sayin’ you think I did the right thing?”

Maggie scoffs. “Hell no. Just my way of sayin’ that I’ll go along with whatever you think is right, like I told you before—which doesn’t mean I’ll keep my mouth shut whenever I think you’re bein’ an idiot.”

Beth knows it’s the best she’s gonna get. She bounces forward to kiss Maggie on the cheek, and Maggie leans into the contact for a second before tapping Beth on the shoulder.

“Turn around an’ lemme fix that hair of yours. It looks like a damn rat’s nest.”

Still smiling, Beth turns and braces her hands on the deck’s railing while Maggie pulls a brush and ponytail holder out of the backpack. A second later, Maggie starts working the brush gently through Beth’s snarled hair, making her scalp tingle pleasantly.

Maggie waits until she’s gotten to the worst knot to say, “So. Daryl’s bedroom, huh?”

“It ain’t like that.” Beth feels like she’s been saying that a lot lately. “Daryl wanted to take the couch, but I wasn’t about to kick him outta his own bed, so I told him either we were gonna share it, or _I’d_ take the couch.”

“ _Pft_. Like I said: God help that baby mule’a yours.”

“I also told him he could bunk with Merle, but he didn’t look too keen on the idea.”

“Don’t blame him. I’d hate to take a black light to that man’s bed.” Maggie sets the brush down on the deck’s little table and gets to work on tying off Beth’s ponytail. Beth’s eyes water a little at the tiny lances of pain; their momma had a way of doing it without pulling on Beth’s hair, but Maggie’s not quite as good at it as Annette was.

Maggie finishes Beth’s ponytail off, then gets to weaving a little braid through the length of it. “So me an’ Glenn were gonna stop an’ get somethin’ to eat. You wanna come with?”

“Can Daryl and Merle come too?” Beth doesn’t really _want_ to invite Merle along, but it would be rude not to. Like she said: he’s been decent to her.

“Only if they didn’t say anythin’ rude to Glenn while we were out here,” says Maggie, which is frankly a lot more than Beth was expecting. Maggie pats Beth’s shoulder to let her know she’s finished, and Beth turns back around.

“Here.” Daryl’s turquoise bracelet sits square in the middle of Maggie’s palm, and, eyes starting to burn again, Beth slides it onto her wrist.  

“Thanks,” she says.

“I brought Bangles along, too.” Beth stares at Maggie like a deer caught in the headlights, and Maggie starts to grin. “Y’know. In case you need somethin’ to snuggle at night that _isn’t_ Daryl.”

If Daryl sees Bangles, Beth just might die from sheer mortification. And if _Merle_ sees Bangles, there won’t be any _mights_ about it.

“Thanks,” Beth mumbles, shoulders hunching up at Maggie’s peal of laughter.

 

* * *

 

A rather urgent need to pee pulls Beth out of bed and into the bathroom, and as she hunkers down on the cold toilet seat, she contemplates the many, many, _many_ late-night bathroom breaks she’ll be taking once the baby gets big enough to press against her bladder.

 _The baby_. It’s as good a descriptor as any, but Carl was right about one thing: Beth’ll have to think of a name soon. The next nine months are gonna go quick, and she shouldn’t wait until she’s having contractions in the delivery room to think up a name for her kid.

With that percolating in the back of her mind, Beth does her business, flushes the toilet, and pads into the narrow hallway to consider Daryl’s bedroom door. Daryl didn’t even stir when Beth climbed out of bed, which surprised her a little: he strikes her as a light sleeper, as someone who doesn’t let their guard down even when they’re unconscious.

Guess she was right about him being exhausted. That exhaustion might be why he opted not to go out to lunch with Beth, Glenn, and Maggie. Either that or he didn’t want to risk getting into a public fight with Beth’s sister.

Thinking of contentious siblings, Beth looks towards the living room. The TV’s on, painting the trailer’s interior with a harsh blue glow. She hesitates. 

But if Daryl can face Beth's father, then she can damn well face his brother. 

So, arms wrapped around her middle, she ventures into the living room and plops onto the couch. Merle doesn’t look at her, but the cat in his lap does.

Even though it means getting closer to Merle, Beth holds her fingers out for the cat to sniff, and she must pass muster, because the little calico purrs and rubs her cheek against Beth’s knuckles. What a sweetie.

Scratching the cat under her chin, Beth asks, “She get her shots yet?”

Merle scoops up the remote and starts channel surfing. “Nah.”

Beth frowns at his craggy profile. “You should get on that. She’s been livin’ outdoors; she could have ringworm. You could—you could take her to my dad’s clinic.”

Merle finally tears his attention away from the TV screen, patchy eyebrows arched. “Don’t think your daddy would be too pleased to see us.”

Beth rolls her eyes. “My dad doesn’t let personal stuff get in the way of him doin’ his job. Besides, he’s the best veterinarian in the area. Seriously: take her in for shots.”

Merle rolls his shoulder into a half shrug, eyes wandering back to the television. Thomas Magnum sprints across the screen in all his porn-mustachioed glory, gun cocked, hairy legs hanging out of his too-tiny shorts.

Beth asks, “Y’all think up a name for her yet, at least?”

The corner of Merle’s mouth curls into a smirk. “Daryl’s been callin’ ’er Lil’ Shit.”

Beth’s lips part. “That’s no name for a cat,” she says, mildly scandalized.

Merle’s smirk unfurls into a toothy grin. “You got somethin’ better in mind? How about Big Turd?”

Beth pulls her legs onto the couch and wraps her arms around her knees. “Can’t y’all shorten it to LS, at least?”

“Not so good with names, huh?”

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Beth shakes her head no.

Merle whistles softly, and LS’s ears prick. “Damn, girl. The hell’re you gonna call your lil’ gremlin, then?”

“That’s what I was wondering,” Beth admits.

“Could jus’ call it Lil’ Dixon for now,” Merle says, all casual-like as he goes back to channel surfing, apparently having had enough of _Magnum PI_. “Till ya think of somethin’ better, anyways.”

“Guess that’ll do for now,” Beth concedes. _Lil’ Dixon_. It’s got a nice ring to it.

Merle doesn’t say anything to that, and after a few minutes of prolonged silence, Beth peeks at him through the pale curtain of her unbound hair. He’s watching the original _Star Trek_ now, and his rapt expression surprises Beth a little. He didn’t strike her as the type, but she guesses that isn’t fair of her. If she doesn’t want people making snap judgments about Daryl, then she really oughta extend that same courtesy to everyone else.

“I know you don’t like me,” Beth says, and Merle’s attentive expression melts into one of wariness when he turns to look at her. “That’s fine. I don’t need you to. But you’ve been decent to me, an’ I want you to know I appreciate it.”

“Ain’t bein’ decent for your sake,” Merle says, and, yeah. Beth figured as much, so she just nods.

Merle twists to face Beth properly, hooking his arm over the back of the couch. “How old’re you, anyways? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

What is this, a census? “Eighteen.”

“Real damn young. The young ones’re always flighty, y’know.”

Beth won’t let him get a rise out of her. She _won’t_. “Oh, yeah? And when was _your_ last long-term relationship?”

Merle flashes his teeth. Instead of answering the question, he says, “You got balls, girl, I’ll give ya that.”

Beth wants to huff at him, but she can’t let him distract her, can’t let him goad her into acting like a _flighty teenager_. This is important. “I may be young, but I ain’t _flighty_. I’m not gonna run off on Daryl, an’ I’m not trying to _use_ him or—or _trap_ him. I didn’t poke holes in the condom or whatever the hell you’re thinkin’.”

Merle scratches blunt nails across his roughhewn cheek. “Nah, I don’t s’pose you did. Daryl, he makes a good livin’ down at that garage, but he ain’t exactly sugar daddy material, y’know what I’m sayin’?” He stops scratching his cheek and points his forefinger at Beth, thumb sticking up like he’s cocking a gun. “Now, you mind what I’m about to tell you, girl: I don’t make a habit of hurtin’ women, but if you even _think_ ’a makin’ my brother regret what he’s done for your sheltered lil’ ass, I just might reconsider that policy.”

“Sounds fair,” Beth says, as steadily as she can, cautious as a rabbit under Merle’s unblinking eyes.  

Merle nods and slumps back against the couch. “Good talk,” he says, running his fingers through LS’s fur. “Now, why don’t’cha scamper on back to bed? Make yourself useful an’ give Daryl a pair’a tits t’hang onto for the night.”

Beth should’ve let Maggie punch him. “Watch your damn mouth.”  

Merle holds his hands up in surrender, a smirk lurking on his face as Beth gets up to go back to bed.

“Hey. Beth.”

Beth swivels back around, head cocked.

“Could always name the lil’ gremlin after its Uncle Merle.”

Beth rolls her eyes. “I’ll take that under advisement,” she says, retreating to Daryl’s bedroom and shutting the door softly behind her.

The mattress squeals under her weight, and the mountain of blankets that is Daryl turns over with a grumble.

“S’goin’ on?” he slurs, voice whiskey rough and groggy.

Beth slides beneath the blankets and rests her cheek on the cool pillow, patting around until her hand lands on top of Daryl’s tousled head.

“Nothin’.” Beth combs her fingers through Daryl’s hair, palm flush with the warm shell of his ear. “Go back to sleep.”

He does. After a while, Beth does, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, folks. I was having a Week. 
> 
> And thank you for reading 💜


	9. Chapter 9

**Monday, August 12 th **

Daryl’s never been a big fan of waiting rooms. He hates the invariably off-white walls; hates the stacks of outdated periodicals with their creased pages and Sharpied address labels; hates how close the stiff chairs are set together and the way somebody always ends up sitting right fucking next to him even when they’ve got their choice of open seats. He hates the waiting most of all, because his patience, while definitely not nonexistent, is also highly selective about the contexts in which it manifests itself.  

The OB/GYN’s waiting room is a hell of a lot nicer than Daryl was expecting, though, even if it reminds him irresistibly of some wealthy maiden aunt’s sitting room—the kind where you aren’t allowed to touch anything but the cushion you park your ass on and can’t have a drink unless you use a fucking doily coaster.

The walls aren’t impersonal off white, for starters; they’re a color that the Home Depot would probably hawk as ‘seafoam green.’ Instead of hardback chairs with skinny cushions that do fuck all to pad your ass, folks get their choice of overstuffed barrel chairs or little gray-blue loveseats. The tables aren’t garnished with vases of silk flowers, but with little statues of tastefully nude women, and there’s even an electric fountain burbling in the far-right corner.

Daryl’s not sure if the fountain’s a well-thought-out addition, given the scores of heavily pregnant women that must filter in and out of this office on a daily basis. Hell, even _his_ bladder has started to twinge, and maybe _that’s_ why his knee won’t stop bouncing.

“Jeez.” Daryl and Beth are huddled close together one of the loveseats; so close that he can make out every word she says even with her voice pitched at an insubstantial whisper. “You’d think _you_ were the one who was gettin’ a pap smear, the way you’re actin’.”

Yeah, a _pap smear_ , and that’s the _least_ of what this Dr. Cloyd is gonna do to Beth. Turns out there’s a whole laundry list of shit they gotta check for during your first prenatal visit, and here Daryl’s dumb ass figured that you got your ultrasound and got out. Shows what he knows about literally anything. Clearly going back to school for his GED was _totally worth it_.

“Hey.” Beth squeezes Daryl’s hand—just the one, even though she’s holding both—and knocks her cheek against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was only teasin’.”

Oh, right. He didn’t react at all to what Beth said, did he? Was too snarled up in his own brain pan to so much as snort derisively in her general direction. He wants to pick his cuticles bloody, maybe gnaw his thumbnail down to a sliver, but that’s why Beth grabbed his hands in the first place, so he couldn’t do either of those things.

“Daryl?”

Shit, there he goes again. _Get it together, asshole_.

“S’fine,” Daryl says.

“No, it’s not.” Beth leans forward in her seat and tries—in vain—to catch Daryl’s darting eyes. “What’s bugging you?”

Aside from all the exhausting shit she’s about to go through? Just about everything, but the judgmental looks the doctor and her minions are sure to cast his and Beth’s way definitely crack the top ten. But Daryl keeps his lips sewn shut and shakes his head, not wanting to dump his shit on Beth and _definitely_ not wanting to do it in a public forum like this one.

A stitch appears between Beth’s eyebrows, and it’s pretty damn clear that she buys not one iota of Daryl’s bullshit, but she keeps her mouth shut and eventually settles back against the loveseat, thumbs sketching soothing arcs over Daryl’s knuckles. His leg stops bouncing, and for a second, he relaxes as much as he ever does.  

For a second.

Because the loveseats are set up in the middle of the waiting room, right, four of them: two back to back, two facing in, and now a pair of women are sitting down on the loveseat across from Beth and Daryl’s. They’re wearing matching rose-gold wedding bands, and one of them looks fit to pop.

The lady who isn’t pregnant seems inclined to mind her own business, eyes glued to her phone’s screen, but her wife takes one gander at Beth and Daryl and immediately starts to smile.

It’s not a _mean_ smile, but Daryl goes on the defensive all the same. Please don’t let her be the kind of person who likes to chat up strangers. Just—

“First baby, huh?” says the pregnant lady, and Daryl thinks, _It just fucking figures_.

Pregnant Lady’s Wife doesn’t even glance up from her phone. “Mind your business, babe.”

Now, her. Her, Daryl could see himself getting along with.

But when he looks at Beth sidelong, she’s smiling, if a bit shyly. “Nah, it’s alright,” she says to the lady with the phone before turning that sweet little smile on her wife. “How’d you guess?”

Good question. It ain’t like Beth’s anywhere in the realm of _showing_ , although Daryl swears that her breasts look bigger—not that he’s _looking_ -looking; he just notices shit.

Anyway.

The pregnant lady nods at Daryl and says, “From the look of your man, mostly. That’s the same look my wife got during _my_ first prenatal visit.”

Pregnant Lady’s Wife finally tears her eyes away from her phone, giving Daryl a narrow-eyed onceover through the lenses of her glasses. “Nah,” she eventually pronounces. “I never turned that white.”

“During the delivery, you sure as hell did,” the pregnant lady mutters, and her wife’s arm twitches like she wants to elbow her in the ribs, only she can’t with that big belly in the way.

There’s something weird about this conversation, and it’s not just that Daryl and Beth—mostly Beth—are having it with strangers. It’s that these women don’t seem to give a single flying fuck that Daryl’s impregnated a girl half his age.  

That’s…something.

“How about you?” Beth’s asking the pregnant lady. “This your first, too?”

“Third.” The pregnant lady brushes a chunk of long brown hair behind her ear, dark eyes lighting up. “Well, second pregnancy, actually—I carried our oldest, but we adopted our middle kid. Think we’re gonna call it quits after this one, though.”

“Thank the good Lord for that,” says the pregnant lady’s wife, and _she_ gets an elbow to the ribs.

“Hey, how about you carry this kid _for_ me, and _then_ you can complain.”

“Maybe I’ve never been pregnant, but I still get trampled on every day at six in the goddamn morning, same as you.”

They’re sniping at one another, but in a gentle kind of way, and Daryl knows fuck all about romance, but he spent a lot of time with Rick and Lori, and he recognizes comfortable, long-standing affection when he sees it. And like it always did with Rick and Lori, watching it play out in front of him makes him feel like he’s intruding on a private moment.   

But then the pregnant lady tosses another smile Beth’s way. “What about y’all? Is one enough for you, or d’you think you’ll want more?”

Daryl tenses, but Beth’s got this, because she’s always got this. “I’ve always wanted at least two, maybe three, but I guess I’ll have to wait and see how I manage with just one.”

 _Two, maybe three_. Daryl tries not to think too hard about that. About the _implications_.  

“Yeah,” says the pregnant lady. “Y’all should probably reserve judgment until after.”

 _After_. Daryl’s having a difficult enough time with the _during_.

The pregnant lady catches Daryl’s eye and smiles, and Daryl can’t help but think that she looks a little bit like Lori. “Don’t you worry, big guy. Your girl’s gonna be just fine.”

Daryl’s throat squeezes tight, and he manages a stilted nod. Probably seems rude as hell, but he really isn’t trying to be.

The door that leads to the exam rooms swings open, and a nurse with dark, curly hair checks her clipboard and says, “Beth Greene?”

Beth releases Daryl’s left hand but keeps hold of his right as they stand up. “That’s us.” She gives the women a little wave. “It was real nice talkin’ to y’all.”

“You too,” the women chorus, and they even seem to mean it.

Beth leads the way to the nurse, whose professional smile doesn’t even flicker when she gets a good look at Daryl. That’s something, too, he supposes.

“Hey,” she says. “How’re y’all doing this morning?”

“Hey, Karen,” says Beth, because she’s been coming here since she was twelve, so of course she’d know the staff by their names. “We’re doin’ great. Ain’t we, Daryl?”

 _Beth’s_ the one who’s about to get her cervix scraped and her blood drawn. Daryl’s gotta get the fuck over himself and be present in the goddamn room with her.

“Yeah.” Daryl squeezes Beth’s hand. “Doin’ fine.”

 

* * *

 

There’s a strange truck parked in front of Daryl’s trailer—strange, but not entirely unfamiliar. Something about it niggles at the back of Daryl’s mind, and he’s almost certain that he’s seen it before in some other context—

Beth leans forward, seatbelt cutting into her chest. “That’s my dad’s truck,” she says, and Daryl can’t even begin to untangle the conflicting snarl of emotions rife in that one short sentence.

He can pick out one or two of them, though. There’s wariness, for one thing. A cautious kind of hope, for another.

For his part, Daryl’s feeling much the same as he swings his own truck into the gravel driveway and cuts the engine, craning a look over his shoulder as first Maggie and then Hershel climb out of the old Ford. The hope starts to outstrip the wariness when Daryl sees Maggie: woman ain’t exactly his biggest fan, but she’s firmly on her little sister’s side, and she’s probably the one who convinced Hershel to come here in the first place.

Daryl unbuckles his seatbelt, but Beth doesn’t. She’s staring out the driver’s side window at her father and sister, the same cocktail of emotions Daryl heard in her voice splashed across her face.

“You wanna go?”

Beth’s eyes snap to Daryl. She blinks, frowns. “What d’you mean?”

Daryl drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Means what it sounded like. You don’t wanna talk to ’im, we can go.”

The frown gets steeper. “D’you think we should?”

Daryl thinks that Beth should give her dad a chance, actually. Her folks are good people, and Daryl doesn’t want her to lose them on account of his sorry ass. But he’s not about to force the issue, either.

Like Maggie, he’s firmly on Beth’s side. What she wants, goes. “Whatever you wanna do.”

But Beth shakes her head, ponytail bobbing. “Nah,” she says. “I don’t wanna run. Anyway, I should hear him out. That he’s reaching out at all is a good sign, right?”

“Sure,” says Daryl, trying like hell to sound more confident than he feels.

Going by the face Beth pulls, he didn’t succeed, but she finally unbuckles her seatbelt and hops out of the truck, and Daryl follows suit. Hershel and Maggie are standing by the deck, and Maggie’s gripping her purse’s strap so hard her knuckles have bleached white through her tan.

Daryl doesn’t much like the look of that, he’s gotta say.

“Hi,” Beth says, voice so impersonally pleasant it’s like she’s talking to strangers. “What brings y’all here?”

Hershel opens his mouth, but Maggie rushes forward before he can say anything, grabbing Beth’s hands and squeezing. “Bethy, did you wanna go for a drive with me? I got the day off and I don’t wanna waste it.”

“Uh. What about Daddy and Daryl?”

“About that,” says Hershel. “I was wondering if I could speak to Daryl for a bit. In private?”  

That could either be a very good thing or a very, very bad one, and Beth must think the same, because she rounds her shoulders and says, “I dunno about that.”

“Beth—surely the man can speak for himself?” Hershel meets Daryl’s eyes and raises his empty hands like a peace offering. “I’m here to talk, not shoot.”   

 _Could have a handgun squirreled away somewhere_ , Daryl thinks, because he’s a paranoid son of a bitch, but Hershel strikes him as an honest man. If he says he doesn’t intend to get violent, then Daryl believes him.

“S’fine,” Daryl says, shifting from foot to foot when three pairs of eyes swing his way. He looks at Beth and uses her as a focal point, feeling a little more grounded when he says, “You an’ Maggie go for that drive. G’on, now.”

The corner of Beth’s mouth ticks up, and Daryl can’t tell if it’s the beginning of a smile or a grimace. Either way, it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Alright,” she says. “Just a short drive, though, okay?”

“Mhmmm,” Maggie hums, linking arms with Beth and leading the way to the Greene family’s Ford. She catches Daryl’s eye in passing and smiles at him for possibly the first time ever, almost like she’s trying to…reassure him?

The Ford starts up with a cough—should this conversation not go entirely south, Daryl’s gonna ask Hershel if he wants him to take a look at the thing’s engine—and trundles down the road and around the bend.

And then there were two.

“Uh.” Daryl meets and holds Hershel’s eyes, not wanting to look even shiftier than he already does naturally. “Y’wanna come in?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” says Hershel, and Daryl has to bite back a sneer, because folks only say that shit when they _do_ mean to impose. It’s one of the many things he likes about Beth, actually: she’s polite, got those good southern manners, but she doesn’t say shit she doesn’t mean.

Daryl leads the way inside, silently thanking Christ Almighty that Merle took Dog to the park for the day. “You wanna drink or somethin’? We got coffee.”

“No, thank you,” says Hershel, sounding genuinely grateful for the offer. Then, “You have a lovely home.”

Anybody else, Daryl would snarl that he doesn’t need to be fucking _condescended to_ , and he very nearly _does_ , because the shame’s hitting him extra hard at the picture the two of them must make: Hershel the gentleman farmer versus the redneck trailer trash piece of _shit_ that done knocked his baby girl up. But Daryl’s gotta do what he can to help repair the rift he put in the Greene family, so he swallows his pride like bitter medicine. Shrugs and says, “S’clean, at least.”

Hershel’s feathery eyebrows ascend his lined forehead. “I don’t suppose Beth’s been of any help with that?”

And there it is. “Nah. Ain’t tryna make her no housewife. She’s been wantin’ to help out, though.” And sometimes succeeding, in her sneaky way, and with Merle’s help and encouragement: doing the laundry while Daryl’s out, cooking him breakfast before he can get out of bed in the morning. Girl would probably do even more than that if she had her druthers.

“You should let her,” Hershel says, surprising Daryl into gaping at him like a fool. “I raised my children to believe in the value of hard work. She won’t thrive unless you let her help out at least a little bit.”

Daryl’s starting to like Hershel, which is unfortunate, given that the man almost certainly hates his guts. He clears his throat and heads into the living room, scooping Lil’ Shit off the couch and dumping her on the floor. She growls halfheartedly and stalks off in the direction of Merle’s room, stiff legged and pissy.

“That’s a beautiful cat you’ve got there,” Hershel says. “What’s her name?”

Fuck. “Uh. LS.” _Please don’t ask what it stands for._

But Hershel ticks his head to one side and squints at Daryl like he thinks he heard him wrong. “Ellis?”

Sure. Let’s go with that. “Mhmmm.”

“A fine name. May I sit?”

Nah, Daryl’s gonna make him stand on the coffee table for the duration of their talk. “Sure.”

So Hershel sits, and when he looks expectantly up at Daryl, he hunkers down, too.

A few seconds elapse in silence, and Daryl uses them to ponder how this might go. Wonders if Hershel will work up to the meat of things with small talk or if he’ll just dive right into the heavier stuff, quick like pulling out a splinter.

“Beth must care for you a great deal.”

 _Guess we’re getting right to it, then._ Hoping to God that his tan’s heavy enough to mask his flushed cheeks, Daryl asks, “Whatcha mean?”

Hershel’s smile is patient, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s a brave girl, my Beth, but even so, it takes a great deal of courage to defy your parents and leave the only home you’ve ever known behind. I left mine when I was fifteen, and I didn’t return to it until after my father’s passing. I came here today because I don’t want history repeating itself.”  

Without Beth here to corral him, Daryl starts picking at his cuticles. Because that’s the thing. He can count on one hand the number of people who’ve stood up for him the way Beth did that day in July. Rick. Merle, in his own clumsy way. His momma, sometimes, when she was feeling real brave.

Beth, though. Beth’s the first person to give up her _home_ for him, and what the _fuck_ is he _even_ supposed to do with that?

He should probably reply to Hershel, except he can’t think of anything that’d do what he’s feeling justice, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets the man talk.

Hershel clears his throat, then says, “My father was a rotten son of a bitch.”

Daryl finally looks up, as startled by the subject matter as he is by hearing a man like Hershel Greene cuss. Hershel smiles wryly.

“I hate to use that sort of language—neither my first nor my second wife would stand for it—but that’s precisely what he was. I wasn’t there at his death bed, and to this day, I’m not sorry for it.”

Daryl chews on the inside of his cheek, tasting copper.  

“But then,” and here Hershel’s eyes go keen and almost flinty, “you’d know all about rotten fathers, wouldn’t you, Daryl?”

Everything in Daryl locks up tight. It’s a struggle to take the breath he needs to talk. “How’d you—”

“I know the look, son. Seen it in the mirror, a time or two.”

“I ain’t like my dad.” Jesus Christ, he sounds like he’s got strep fucking throat. “Ain’t like yours, neither.”

 _Ain’t like my dad_ , he said, except. Except.

He’s a dick when he’s drunk, like his dad. Bow hunts like his dad. Got the same cigarette-choked rasp of a voice as his dad. Fuck, he even _looks_ like the old bastard, is his spitting fucking image, and that’s one reason he grew out his hair, anything to tone down the family resemblance.

But Hershel just says, “No. I don’t suppose you are,” and Daryl.

Has no fucking idea. What to do with that.

Which is fine, because Hershel seems perfectly willing to carry the weight of this conversation. “I misjudged you, I think. From what Maggie’s told me, you’ve done right by Beth—it’s to my understanding that you just got back from her first prenatal visit?”

“Uh-huh.” Also, it just fucking figures that Maggie’s been reporting back to Hershel for the greater good, except Daryl can’t even be mad about it, with the way things are turning out.

“You understand, of course, why I was hesitant to trust you and your intentions towards my daughter,” Hershel says, like they’re in one of those goddamn historical romance novels Merle pretends to read for the smut even though Daryl damn well knows that the crotchety old bastard is just a sucker for a happy ending. “Beth is an adult, but she’s still terribly young, and I wasn’t even aware that the two of you were together until after the news of her pregnancy came out.”

Oh, hell. “We didn't—we ain’t—” Fuck. _Fucking hell_.

But Hershel takes mercy on him and says, “Yes, Beth told me that your current relationship was entirely platonic—and I don’t suppose that’s changed over the last few weeks?”

Thus far, Daryl’s managed to _not_ poke Beth in the ass with his morning wood, so, sure. Guess _platonic_ ’s as good a descriptor as any. “Nah. It hasn’t.”

“Then you won’t be too terribly upset if I ask Beth to come back home? I’m not opposed to you being in her life, but I’d like for her and the baby to live on the farm. There’s more room there. More space for a child to grow and play.”

Daryl nods, too fast, even as something in him gives a sharp pang like a stab wound. “Yeah, that’s—sounds good to me. Ain’t much room for a kid ’round here, anyways.”

A car rumbles down the street, and Hershel smiles, small and cautious. “That’ll be the girls.” He braces his hands on his knees as if to push to his feet, but Daryl says, “Can I ask you somethin’?”

“You can.”

Right. Okay. “What made you change your mind? About—everythin’.”

Hershel’s eyes shutter, but Daryl doesn’t think it’s because he’s pissed. “I’ve already lost two wives and a son. I’ll be damned if I lose my daughter and grandchild, too.”

And then Hershel holds out his hand, and after a too-long pause, Daryl shakes it.

The door bangs open—Beth’s got her own key, now—and the Greene girls pour in, eyes over bright and hopeful. Daryl looks at Beth and nods, mouth curving, and her answering smile hits him right in the gut.

“I’d best get back to work, now,” Hershel says, joints popping as he stands up, and Daryl trails him into the kitchen. Beth comes forward, a manila folder cradled in her hands.

“Here,” she says, hushed like she’s telling a secret. “It’s a printout of the ultrasound. We can get you a copy too, if you want.”

Hershel flips the folder open without a word, and Daryl looks at the ultrasound over his shoulder. It’s just a shadow of a blob, really, clinging to the wall of Beth’s uterus—looks kinda like a kidney bean, actually, the way it’s curled in on itself—but seeing it back at Dr. Cloyd’s office really set Daryl’s new reality in stone. That little blob is part him and part Beth, and he’s still not sure if he loves it the way Beth loves it, but looking at it made his eyes itch like an allergic reaction.

Hershel clears his throat, and Daryl would bet that _his_ eyes are itching something awful, too. “I’d like that, Bethy,” he says, and just like that, Beth’s stepping into her dad’s arms, cheek tucked against his shoulder. She looks at Daryl and smiles, and the itch gets worse.

Daryl blinks. Contemplates the kitchen tile as he waits for his eyes to stop burning.  

Hershel shakes Daryl’s hand one last time, and then he and Maggie are on their way, and Beth’s standing in the kitchen with the folder clutched to her chest, and Daryl.

Daryl should probably tell her that her dad wants her to move back in, but he just looks at her, and she looks back. There’s something wild lurking in her eyes, and when she sets the folder down on the kitchen table and comes towards him, he just stands there and stares like a snared rabbit.

“Uh,” Daryl tries. “Your dad, he wanted—”

His words get lost against the soft press of Beth’s lips. It’s fleeting. Innocent. Not unlike the way she kissed him when he first brought her here. The way you’d kiss a friend, she said, but she may as well have shoved her tongue into his mouth, because his skin’s tingling like a current and his heart’s lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.  

And it’s over before Daryl can really process it. Beth falls back on the flats of her feet, hands clasped in front of her, cheeks pink like the sunrise.

“Sorry,” she says. “Sorry, I should’a asked first—”

No. Nope. He is _not_ gonna tolerate her looking that way, not ’cause of _him_ , not at all, not ever.

So he makes what could be a terrible call or a great one. He frames Beth’s face in his hands—thumbs riding her cheekbones, fingers snagging in her hair—and he slicks his mouth across hers.

And Beth—she makes this _sound_. Lets out this shuddering little sigh that could become a whimper, given the chance, and then she coils her arms around Daryl’s neck like the world’s cuddliest boa constrictor and kisses him back.

 _Thank you, Jesus_.

Daryl’s pulse throbs in his ears and his wrists and his dick, and his fingers rake through Beth’s hair, destroying her ponytail, and he fucking _crushes_ himself to her, rubbing his chest against her tits—bigger, they definitely feel bigger—and as he rolls his tongue across her lips and slides it between her teeth, he thinks that it’s everything their first kiss was but also everything it _wasn’t_. Because there’s no shame in this, no looming shadow of guilt for defiling the farmer’s daughter, and—

Beth whuffs out a breath, and Daryl pulls out of the kiss, lips slick with saliva, dick twitching in his pants when he gets a good look at _Beth’s_ wet, swollen mouth, at the beard burn on her cheeks, but.

But he backed her into the counter, and he doesn’t remember doing that.

Panic funnels up Daryl’s throat like a surge of vomit, but Beth scratches his scalp with her nails and curls her puffy pink lips into the sweetest smile he ever did see.  

“Hey,” she says, and just like that, the panic recedes. Like it was never there at all.

Daryl licks his lips, lapping up traces of strawberry lip palm. “Hey.”

Beth scrubs her palms against Daryl’s stubble and drags his face back down to hers, and, hell. Who the fuck is he to say no to that?

Beth lets out another one of those sweet little almost whimpers when Daryl tucks his fingers beneath the hem of her shirt to pet her belly, and he smiles into the damp slide of their kiss.

Who, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but the current political climate (shitstorm) has made it extremely difficult for me to write about the subject matter presented in this fic. Once I allowed myself to write it, though, the words came remarkably fast. I guess it really is just like riding a bike (sidenote: I cannot, in fact, ride a bike). 
> 
> And, hey. I missed y'all. Hope you guys are doing well ❤️

**Monday, August 12 th**

Beth and Daryl are sitting on opposite ends of the couch. It’s not a very long couch, so the distance between them is negligible, but Daryl wants to talk to Beth about something her father said while she was out driving with Maggie, and the two of them came to the silent, mutual agreement that very little in the way of _talking_ would get done if they stayed in close proximity.

 _Leave room for Jesus_ , Beth thinks, and has to swallow a bubble of giddy laughter.

Okay, so maybe she _didn_ _’t_ swallow it in time, because then Daryl cuts her a sharp look—one she answers with a guileless stare of wide-eyed innocence that wouldn’t be out of place on a cartoon deer.

“What?” Beth asks.

“…Nothin’,” Daryl eventually pronounces, hesitating a beat like he’s starting to doubt he heard something, after all.

Beth shifts in place, crossing her legs and resting her linked hands on top of her thigh. She’s gotta hold onto her own self, is the thing, or else she’ll reach for Daryl, and then they really _won_ _’t_ get around to talking. “So, uh, what was it you wanted to—”

“Your dad wants you to come home.”

Beth blinks, all thoughts of giving into temptation and crawling across the empty cushion and into Daryl’s lap careening off their tracks. “Oh.”

Daryl squints at her. Starts picking absently at a hangnail. They really need to work on breaking him of that habit. “What you mean, _oh_?”

Beth shrugs. “What, didja think I’d freak out or somethin’? Ain’t like I wasn’t expectin’ this.” She’s not just saying that; her father wouldn’t’ve tried mending fences if he didn’t want her to come home. Hell, Maggie outright told her at the start of all this that their dad wanted her back; that he was just too stubborn, and then too afraid, to make the first move.

“Oh,” Daryl echoes, and then lapses into silence. He picks harder at that hangnail, and Beth risks reaching across the couch to wrap her fingers around his. She’s not feeling real sexy anymore, anyways. Talking about your dad will do that to you.

Daryl runs his thumb across Beth’s knuckles. “Guess we oughta start packin’ up your shit, then,” he mumbles.

Carefully, trying her damnedest to stifle the hurt that wants to manifest itself in her voice, Beth says, “D’you _want_ me to go?”

“Ain’t about what I want,” Daryl says, not quite looking Beth in the face. But he doesn’t let go of her hand, because Beth was never much of an actress, and she damn well _knows_ that he picked up on the pain she didn’t want him to hear.

Beth’s arm is starting to strain from being stretched out between them like this, so she scoots onto the middle cushion and pivots to face Daryl more fully, knee bumping his hip. “ _Yeah_ , it is. It’s your baby too, and you and me, we’re—” Well, they’re _something_ , at least, although Beth doubts that now’s the time for the _what are we_ talk. “Y’know.”

Daryl’s eyes flicker like he wanted to roll them but changed his mind at the last second. “Y’oughta be with your family.”

 _But_ we’re _family,_ Beth thinks. _We_ _’re having a baby, and we care about each other, and that makes us family._

But she doesn’t say it out loud, because Daryl can be real skittish. All that kissing, and then something like that—it all might be too much for his sensibilities.

“ _Daryl_ ,” Beth presses instead, feeling a bit like a current wearing a stone down to a pebble. “Do you _want_ me to go?”

“Goddammit, girl.” He says it without any real heat, sounding more resigned than anything else. His hand’s gone limp in hers. “I jus’ want what’s best for you, Jesus.”

“And you get to decide what’s best for me ’cause I’m havin’ your kid?” Beth asks, a little coldly. It’s not fair of her, and she _knows_ that’s not what he meant, but a mean, petty sliver of her wants to take her hurt and turn it outwards, to weaponize it against the people she cares about, to punish both herself and someone else. She got good at that kind of thing during the worst months of her depression and getting back into the habit really is just like riding a bike: you never forget.

And going by Daryl’s unconcealed flinch, Beth’s words found their target with stunning accuracy. “Beth, that ain’t what I—”

“Yeah, I know,” Beth rushes out, squeezing Daryl’s hand. Jesus, but that was shitty of her. She’s such a fucking asshole. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said that, an’ I didn’t mean it. I didn’t.”

Daryl casts a glance at her from under his shaggy bangs, all wary, cornered wolf. He doesn’t say anything.

“You’re right,” Beth says, staring at their linked hands. Even with her summer tan warming her skin, she still looks pale as death next to Daryl. “It’d be best for everyone if I went home.” She forced herself on Daryl’s hospitality, anyway. Didn’t even ask him if it’d be alright for her to stay at his place for a little while. He probably wants her out of his hair—

 _No_. Daryl wouldn’t think like that, and Beth can’t allow her anxiety to convince her otherwise. He just wants what’s best for her, like he said, and right now, he thinks it’s best that she return home to her father and sister.

“It’s just.” Beth swallows, throat constricting around a phantom lump. “I’m just used to it now, y’know? Seein’ you every day. I’m gonna. I’m gonna miss you.”

“Beth,” Daryl says quietly, voice rumbling like thunder on the horizon. That’s the thing about Daryl’s voice: the quieter it is—the _gentler_ it is—the deeper it gets. It’s only when he’s all worked up and shouting that it goes high pitched and brittle like an angry young boy’s. “It ain’t like we’re never gonna see each other again.”

He’s right. They saw each other a decent amount before Beth moved in. And couples—if that’s what they are—shouldn’t spend _all_ their free time together. That’s not healthy.

“Merle’s gonna miss you, though,” Daryl adds with a deliberate kind of lightness that Beth rarely hears from him. She snorts.

“He’ll miss havin’ someone around to cook for him, you mean.”

“Nah. He likes you. He’s just real shitty at showin’ it.”

For a second, Beth wonders if Daryl’s really just talking about Merle, but then she gets distracted. Because it’s funny. When she first moved in, she was wholly convinced that Merle couldn’t stand the sight of her, and she’s still fairly certain that she was correct in her analysis. Maybe that’s changed some, though. Maybe she did a good job of convincing Merle that she wasn’t out to hurt his brother.

Maybe he just really likes her cooking.

“Um.” Beth blinks hard. If she starts crying, she won’t stop, and that’ll upset Daryl. “Okay, I’ll go home. But I’m not goin’ back today.”

“Beth—”

“No, listen. I need some time to get all my stuff together.” The overripe duffel bag Maggie brought her has multiplied into two duffel bags, between the stuff Maggie forgot to bring the first time plus the shopping trips Beth has made since. “If I try to do it all at once, I’ll get stressed out. And stress is bad for pregnant women,” she finishes triumphantly, knowing that Daryl will cave to _that_ if nothing else and feeling only a little bad for manipulating him so transparently.

Plus, she wants another couple of days to savor this new-ish thing between them in relative privacy. Call her selfish, but she does.

And, just like she knew he would, Daryl capitulates almost immediately. “Fuck, fine, but only if you want your daddy to go right on back to hating my fuckin’ guts.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Daryl. He never did.” Beth smiles brightly at Daryl, hoping he’ll return it. He doesn’t, but his eyes get a little less squinty, so she’s calling it a win. “Besides, he’ll be so afraid of drivin’ me off again that he won’t even put up a fight. S’long as I agree to come home eventually, he’ll be fine.”

The squint returns with a vengeance. “Shit. You got the poor bastard wrapped tight around your lil’ finger, don’t ya?”

Beth just shrugs and smiles, shamelessly secure in her position as the baby of the family.

“I best pray that we don’t have a lil’ girl, then, huh?”

 _A little girl_ , Beth thinks with a pang, free hand curving over her abdomen. A little girl with Daryl’s nose and Annette’s smile, maybe. Or a little towheaded boy with Maggie’s sparkling green eyes and Shawn’s dimples.

The pang tries to grow into an open wound, and Beth quickly tapes it shut the way she’s been doing since she first climbed out of the hole of her depression. She can think about it and get sad later, because she’s learned that sadness is preferable to feeling nothing at all, and that wounds will only fester if you ignore them for too long, besides. She doesn’t want to deal with it right now, is all. Right now, she wants to concentrate on Daryl and their baby.

“Guess you should,” Beth says, and probably a little too late, going by the way Daryl’s looking at her with unconcealed concern. That’s another thing about Daryl: he seems stoic at first, and he kind of is, but he’s shitty at hiding what he’s feeling. He’s a lot like Glenn in that neither of them have any guile to speak of.

Maybe the Greene sisters have similar tastes in men, after all.

Daryl drops it, at least, because he’s a kind person. He laces his fingers through Beth’s in a way that has warmth shooting straight through the heart of her, and then he clears his throat and says, “So, uh.”

Beth tilts her head. “What?” Now that they’ve gotten the difficult stuff out of the way, she’d really like to go back to kissing. She really would.

Hey, listen. She may be an adult with a baby on the way, but she’s still a teenager with the requisite teenage hormones, and Daryl’s extremely attractive. Like, Jesus. Sometimes she gets faint just looking at him.

“I was thinkin’. Y’know how we don’t got no receptionist down at the autoshop?”

“Yeah.” She remembers Mr. Williams of the wool hat, manning the front desk even though he owned the place. She’s had occasion to meet his younger sister, too, on the days she hopped the bus to come have lunch with Daryl during his work week. “Why?”

Daryl’s not looking at her. “I talked to Tyreese an’ Sasha. Asked ’em how the search for a new receptionist was goin’, an’ they said they couldn’t find nobody who wasn’t an asshole or a weirdo.”

“Yeah.” Beth smiles a little, getting an inkling of where this is going. “Guess those aren’t good traits to have in a receptionist.”

Daryl rolls his eyes and reaches out with his free hand to tug on the ends of Beth’s hair, and her heart gives a twinge. “Yeah, no shit. So I asked ’em if they’d be interested in interviewing this girl I know. Told ’em she’s real sweet, kind of a pain in the ass, but she knows how to deal with folks without losin’ her shit.” 

 _Sweet?_ Beth thinks, flushing. And then, _Kind of a pain in the ass?_ “Ain’t that nepotism?”

Instead of pretending to be less well read than he actually is and asking her what the hell nepotism means, Daryl just says, “Ain’t nepotism if I ain’t the one who’s in charge.”

That’s an _extremely_ shaky technicality right there. “Daryl, am I even qualified for the job?”

“Can ya type?”

“Yeah.” Pretty fast, too. She averaged about seventy-five words per minute back in high school, when she last had occasion to be tested on something like that.

“File shit?”

“I guess? If somebody showed me how?”

“Answer the phone?”

“Only if it’s a rotary dial.”

“Alright, smartass. Guess you’re qualified for the job.”

Beth wrinkles her nose. Then she leans forward and kisses him, gently.

Daryl hums against her mouth and returns the pressure for a few seconds, but before Beth can part his lips with her tongue and get to the really interesting stuff, he pulls away. Not far, though, and he runs his thumb across the back of her hand like he’s reassuring her that this isn’t a rejection. And it wasn’t an intense kiss, but his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are bright.

Dammit, who gave him the right to be this freaking _adorable_?

“There’s, uh. If we’re gonna do this shit, I got somethin’ I need ta show you. Don’t want it takin’ you by surprise, s’all.”

 _Something to show you_ , he said, but not, Beth suspects, in the sexy way. Daryl’s eyes dropped as he said it, teeth sinking into the swell of his lower lip. Almost like he’s scared, or on his way to it.

Slowly, Beth nods. “Sure. What is it?”

Instead of answering her, Daryl climbs off the couch, hand trailing away from hers. Then he starts to undo the line of buttons on his flannel shirt.

Beth stares at him, uncomprehending. He put things on pause like he wasn’t ready to go that far quite yet, and now he’s undressing? She doesn’t get it.

The shirt slides off his shoulders and pools around his elbows, and Beth takes a second to admire the view. Flat brown nipples, blurred tattoo over his heart, fuzz of hair on his chest and stomach. Beth can’t help but wonder how that hair would feel scratching against _her_ nipples, and she has to press her legs together to stave off the curious twinge that pulses through her.  

But then Daryl ducks his head and turns around, and the sight that greets Beth hits her like a shower of ice water.

Beth never really thought about it before, but now that she _is_ thinking about it, she realizes that she’s never seen Daryl shirtless, even after weeks of living with him. Come to think of it, he didn’t take his shirt off when they had sex, either, and Beth chalked it up to him being in a hurry, but now—

Now she sees the scars on Daryl’s back, and she recognizes them instantly for what they are. She recognizes them because she’s seen them on her father.

Daryl’s back is even paler than his chest and stomach, like maybe he’s unbuttoned his shirts when it’s gotten really hot but never risked taking them all the way off outdoors where other people could see his scars. They’re concentrated mostly in the center of his back, those scars, which explains why Beth’s never caught a glimpse of them through the arm holes in his sleeveless shirts. They’re thick and purple and _vicious_ , built up over years of abuse, lashed into his skin by someone with a strong arm and a belt and no goodness to speak of.

This wasn’t just the once. It happened over and over and _over_ , because it’s never _just the once_. And Beth.

Beth hasn’t felt a _hatred_ this strong, this all-consuming, since she was first old enough to understand what her grandfather had done to her daddy. It boils in her stomach, rises in her throat like bile, makes her vision waver and her fingers shake.

Daryl looks at her over his shoulder, bangs obscuring his eyes. “Beth? Y’alright? I know it’s—”

 _Alright_. He’s asking if _she_ _’s_ alright. But, well. She’s been silent for a long stretch of seconds, hasn’t she? Maybe a whole minute, even. He’s probably afraid. Probably afraid of scaring her off with the ugliness of it all, but, no. Never.

Not ever.

Beth doesn’t remember getting off the couch, but she’s on her feet. She hovers a hand over Daryl’s shoulder blade, over the sprawling tattoo of an ugly demon that’s still nowhere near as ugly as the marks of what Daryl’s father did to him.

_My daddy…he was a real shit, nastiest drunk you ever seen. Slapped my momma around, wouldn’t let her go nowhere without his permission, beat on me an’ Merle. Got to the point I couldn’t stand the smell of leather for a while, ’cause of…’cause of his belt…_

“Can I…?”

Daryl hesitates, but then he says, “Yeah. Sure. G’head.”

He gave her permission, but his skin still shivers on his bones when she touches it. She runs featherlight fingers across the demon’s bat-like wings, tracks them to the center of Daryl’s back where the scars are layered the thickest, piled up on top of each other like cars in a wreck. Feels the healed skin, rough as tree bark, and shuts her eyes as another intense wave of hatred and sorrow threatens to buckle her.

Daryl clears his throat. Beth’s eyes are still shut, but she can feel him shift from foot to foot. “Merle’s got ’em, too. S’why he left an’ joined the Army. He would’a killed the bastard if he stayed.”

So, Beth and Merle have something in common, after all. ’Cause she would kill Will Dixon too, if he wasn’t already dead. Even if it meant spending the rest of her life in prison. Even if it meant going straight to Hell.

She’d still kill him, and she wouldn’t ask God for His forgiveness because she wouldn’t be sorry.

That should probably disturb her—and it does, in a distant kind of way. A very, _very_ distant kind of way.

Beth opens her eyes. She keeps her hand on Daryl’s back as she circles around to his front, dragging it across his ribs until it rests low on his side. She puts her other hand on his face, cupping his rough cheek and sliding her fingers through his scruffy beard.

What’s she supposed to say? That she’s sorry? That she’d undo it if she could? Both of those things are true, and both are ultimately useless.

What she ends up saying is, “You’re nothin’ like him.”

Daryl shuts his eyes. His lower lip trembles like he’s gonna cry. His hands, formerly limp at his sides, come up to wrap around Beth’s waist and clutch her to him. Beth slides her arms around him, locking them behind his back, and presses her mouth to his. It’s not a heated kiss. Not a searching one.

It’s her way of letting him know she’s here. Simple human connection.

_You're nothin' like him._

Truer words were never spoken.


	11. Chapter 11

**Friday, August 16 th **

 

“You sure your dad won’t mind having a dog in the house?”

“He’s a vet, Daryl—and he lives on a _farm_. Of course he won’t mind.” Beth unbuckles her seatbelt before Daryl can finish throwing the truck into park and ignores his disapproving little huff. It’s like she told him before: she’s _pregnant_ , not made of glass. “Besides, I called ahead, didn’t I? He knew we were bringing Dog with us.”

Dog lets out a little woof as though to back up Beth’s argument.  

Beth doesn’t think it’s Dog that Daryl’s worried about, though. Not really. No, she suspects that Daryl’s just projecting all his _other_ anxieties onto this one small, manageable thing, so she smiles reassuringly at him before leaning across the console to kiss him. It’s a nice feeling, knowing that she’s allowed to do something like this, that she’s _welcome_ to do it. Knowing that Daryl will lean into her and part his lips just a little, just enough for Beth to taste his breath and feel the edge of his tongue.

“It’ll be fine,” she promises from up close, shaping the words against Daryl’s scruffy chin, and she feels him nod against her. That’s another nice feeling: having the power to comfort him with her words and her touch. She kisses his cheek in parting, then slides out of the cab and heads for the truck bed at a clip, grabbing one of her duffel bags before Daryl can try to haul everything inside by himself. She sticks her tongue out at him when he makes a face at her, then moves towards the farmhouse.  

As much as she’ll miss seeing Daryl every day, it’s good to be home, to walk across the same land her ancestors walked, to breathe in the pungent smell of livestock and the crisper smell of flourishing crops. More than the land, though, she missed her dad and Maggie. Maggie’s visited her intermittently throughout the week; and she saw her dad when she, Daryl, and Merle took LS in for her shots on Wednesday, but that’s not the same as living with them. It feels like forever since she sat down for a family meal.

“Hey. Ain’t that Rick’s car?”

Beth tears her eyes away from the farmhouse and looks over to one side of its welcoming bulk, and, yeah, that _is_ Rick’s car. She doesn’t know how she missed it when they drove up; guess she was just so overwhelmed by her homecoming that her whole world narrowed down to her house and her family inside of it.

At least it’s the Hyundai and not the police cruiser. If it were the cruiser, Beth would probably have a panic attack.  

Because, the thing is, it was the cruiser that pulled up to the house the night Annette and Shawn died.

“Yeah, I.” Beth’s voice shakes a little as she struggles to beat back the irrational surge of panic. She doesn’t want Daryl to notice how upset she’s getting over nothing. “I guess Daddy invited him over for dinner. He does that sometimes.”

Which is true, but Beth kind of expected tonight to be a family-only night, since she’s just getting back after being away for so long. She kind of figured that her dad and Maggie wouldn’t want to share her with anyone else for a little while.

Daryl swings around and plants himself between Beth and the porch, the streaks of light and shadow produced by the sinking sun hitting him in such a way that she can’t make out much of his face beyond the shape of his stubborn jaw and the outlines of his slanted cheekbones. Dog plops down at their feet and leans his weight against Beth’s legs, and she pets him absently between the ears as she looks up at Daryl.

“What?”

Daryl shuffles his feet like an uncertain little kid, and it’s funny. He’s well into his thirties, but a lot of the time, he comes off as closer to Beth’s age, like he’s still knee deep in the awkward throes of puberty. Beth wonders whether he’d be insulted if she told him so.

“Nothin’. Just. There somethin’ botherin’ you?”

Beth considers brushing it off, but that won’t work. Daryl knows there’s something wrong with her, and if she doesn’t tell him what it is outright, he’ll just spend the rest of the night stewing in his worry for her. Beth doesn’t want that, and _Daryl_ doesn’t need that.

“It’s just.” Beth shrugs and tries to smile. She’s glad she’s not looking in a mirror while she does it. “The last time Mr. Grimes turned up at my house without warning, it was to tell us that Momma and Shawn had gotten into an accident.”  

Daryl hisses, slow and quiet like a tire losing pressure. “Fuck. Beth, I—I didn’t mean—”

“’Course you didn’t. It’s okay, really. Promise. Nothing’s wrong; I’m just bein’ silly.”

"Ain’t nothin' silly about this, girl."

Beth bites her lip to hold in a true smile, because smiling right now would be super inappropriate and would probably freak Daryl the hell out besides, but. She’s just so entrenched in the habit of downplaying her own feelings, so used to convincing herself that her mental health issues aren’t as severe as she thinks they are, that to be told that her emotions are valid and understandable by someone she cares about so deeply makes her want to laugh with relief.

He gets her. He _gets_ her.

“Thanks,” she says quietly, and she can’t see much of Daryl’s face, but she just _knows_ that he’s opening his mouth to tell her not to thank him, so she stretches up on her toes, places a hand on Daryl’s chest for balance, and kisses him as sweetly as she can.

But then the screen door creaks, and Dog bounds to his feet with a bark so loud it probably startles the horses, far away as they are. Beth falls away from Daryl’s mouth in a hurry, and he turns his head, and she can see him suck his lower lip between his teeth like he’s trying to suck up the taste of her, and, oh. Now’s a bad time to get turned on, but Beth’s been kind of low-key _constantly_ turned on since they kissed in Daryl’s kitchen on Monday.

Pregnancy hormones, or just him? Probably a little of both.

“Hey, y’all, come on— _oof_. Nice to see you, too, but would you mind not knocking me flat on my ass?”

“Watch your language, young lady.” Hershel uses his stern Dad Voice to admonish Maggie, but it softens like goo when he presumably gets a good look at Dog. “Why, hello, there. Aren’t you a handsome boy?”

Beth peers around Daryl’s shoulder and sputters out a laugh. Dog’s got his front paws planted on her dad’s shoulders as he pants in his face, and Hershel looks positively delighted with this turn of events.

“C’mon,” Beth says, catching Daryl’s hand and pulling him gently along with her, up the stairs to the shaded porch and past the threshold into the cool of the air-conditioned house. Hershel’s kneeling on the floor, scratching Dog between the ears and petting him on the nose.

“Hey, Daddy.” Hershel holds out a hand in a silent request for assistance, and Beth lets go of Daryl to help her dad to his feet. “I see you’ve met Dog.”

Hershel plucks the duffel bag off Beth’s shoulder before she can protest, feathery white eyebrows winging up as he processes what she just said. “Dog? Well, that’s certainly…to the point.”

 _Better than Lil’ Shit_ , Beth thinks. She exchanges a look with Daryl and has to bite her lower lip hard to keep from laughing when she sees the same thought reflected in his eyes. Daryl kind of looks like he wants to laugh, too, and Beth turns quickly away from him before she really _does_ burst into hysterics.

“Daddy, is that Mr. Grimes’s car out front?”

Hershel nods, but it’s Maggie who elaborates. “Yeah. Mr. Grimes and Carl stopped by for a little bit, but they ain’t stayin’ for dinner. Mr. Grimes just wanted to drop somethin’ off.”

Beth tilts her head. “Drop what off?”

“Go on into the living room and see,” says Maggie, frustratingly cryptic. And then, in the most pleasant voice she’s used with him yet, she says to Daryl, “Hey, Daryl, would you mind helpin’ me take Beth’s things upstairs?”

“Yeah, alright.” Daryl heads for the stairs, and Maggie takes the duffel bag from Hershel—it’s like a game of hot potato in here—before following him. Beth stares after their retreating backs for a second, trying not to think too hard about the _last time_ Daryl was in her bedroom, and what transpired there.  

“Bethy, sweetheart, why don’t you head on into the living room? Dinner should be ready in about an hour.”

Right. Dinner. Now that Hershel’s drawn her attention to it, Beth’s pretty sure she can smell minestrone. A safe choice, considering that cooking meat still makes her nauseous. “Will Mr. Grimes and Carl be stayin’ for dinner?”

“I asked, but Rick politely declined. Says they’ve got dinner plans with Michonne.” Hershel smiles genially, but his eyes are shrewd. “I was thinking of inviting Daryl to stay, though. Do you think he’ll accept?”

Honestly? Beth has no idea. But Daryl’s still on thin ice, and it probably wouldn’t reflect well on him to refuse an invitation to dinner from the father of the girl he impregnated. “Uh, well, I guess you won’t know until you ask. But I’m sure he’ll say yes. Living room, right?”

From the look on Hershel’s face, Beth can tell that her dodge was a clumsy one. “That’s right.”

“Then I guess I’ll go check it out, whatever it is. Thanks, Daddy.” And Beth kisses Hershel on the cheek before retreating to the living room, trying not to visibly slump with relief until she’s out of his line of sight.

Beth and Daryl still haven’t told anyone that they’re tentatively pursuing a romantic relationship, not because they’re ashamed—at least, _Beth_ isn’t ashamed—but because they want some time to themselves, unburdened by the attention of others. That being said, Beth suspects that Merle is on to them, if only because all three of them have been living together and it’s hard to keep a secret of that magnitude from your housemate.

And if Merle _does_ know, at least he doesn’t seem to care. Maggie and Hershel probably will, but Beth hopes that they won’t disapprove. She just got back home; she doesn’t want to have to leave again.

But then Beth walks into the living room, and she stops fretting over how she’s going to tell Maggie that she’s spent most of the past week with her lips firmly attached to Daryl’s, thrown off by what she sees.

It’s summer, so the sun has yet to set even though it’s approaching six o’clock at night, but it’s dim enough inside the big, drafty farmhouse to necessitate the use of artificial lights. The lights are on, so Beth can clearly see the plastic storage tubs that are taking up a good share of space on the living room floor.  

Beth recognizes four of them—she last saw the dark purple and blue tubs pushed into a corner of what used to be Shawn’s room, collecting dust. Someone’s wiped them off since then—Beth’s nostrils burn with the lingering scent of Lemon Pledge—but the lids are still a little grimy at the corners. Beth approaches them on dragging feet, heart clenching up the way it had when she first spotted Rick’s car parked in their driveway.

She loves her dad and her sister more than anything, but, God, she’s so _pissed_ at them for not warning her. They should’ve _known_ what a surprise like this might do to her.

But is that fair of her to say? She’s been okay lately. She’s been well enough to decide it was safe for her to have and raise a baby. She can’t expect her family to predict when and where she’ll have an anxiety attack.

She’s _not_ having an anxiety attack.

She’s not, but she wishes Daryl were here. No, she doesn’t wish that. She doesn’t want him to see her like this; it would only upset him.

_Calm. The hell. Down._

She is. She’s calm, or at least she’s not panicking. She’s shrugging her backpack off her shoulders, is what she’s doing. She’s crouching on the hardwood floor in front of the plastic storage tubs. Four tubs, not counting the clear ones. Two purple, two blue, bought years apart from each other in sets. She knows what’s in the blue bins, and she’s too much of a coward to look inside of those, so she opens one of the purple bins instead.

She unseals the lid with a soft pop and sets it aside, leaning it up against the coffee table. She scoops up a green onesie with Tigger from _Winnie the Pooh_ stitched onto the chest. It’s not quite wrinkled, but there are creases in it along where it was left folded for years. She remembers it, or at least she remembers her parents showing it to her after she’d long outgrown it. It belonged to Shawn, and then it belonged to her.

And now, if she wants it, it will belong to her baby.

Beth presses the onesie to her face and inhales. It’s got that musty smell that all unworn clothes get after years kept in storage. Beth will have to wash and iron these clothes before she lets Lil’ Dixon wear them.  

Carefully, Beth folds the Tigger onesie up along the creases in the fabric and returns it to the top of the stack. She’ll have to thank her dad; he just saved her a lot of money by allowing her to borrow these. She’ll return them once Lil’ Dixon’s outgrown them; Maggie might want them for her own children, should she choose to have them.

Beth still can’t believe that she’s having a child before her older sister can.

_At least Maggie has the option to have children one day. Shawn never will._

It’s an ugly thought. Beth strangles it and buries it, but its ghost persists. Its ghost, and the ghosts of the maternity clothes that are packed away inside those blue bins.

Beth will definitely accept the baby clothes, but she’s not sure if she can bring herself to wear her momma’s old maternity clothes. She’ll feel bad rejecting them, but maybe she call tell her dad that they’re just too out of style for her to wear. She’ll sound shallow as hell saying so, but it’s better than the truth.

Beth seals the purple bin and turns her attention to the two clear bins. She doesn’t recognize them. She’s fairly certain that they don’t belong to her family.

_Mr. Grimes just wanted to drop somethin’ off._

Abruptly, Beth doesn’t want to look inside the clear bins, either.

“Aren’t you gonna open ’em?”

Beth startles like a deer, but she doesn’t take flight, badly as she wants to. Surprised that she didn’t hear the thud of Rick’s boots on the hardwood floor, she cranes a look over her shoulder and watches him approach her with his hands in his pockets and a tiny smile on his face. He levers himself into a crouch beside her, elbows on his knees, chin propped on his linked hands.

“Ain’t much in the way of baby clothes—Judy still needs most of ours, but I brought you the stuff she’s outgrown. Figured you could use the maternity clothes, too, since they’re newer than your mom’s.”

Rick still needs most of the baby clothes, but he won’t be needing the maternity clothes at all, and the reason _why_ he won’t be needing them sticks in Beth’s throat like a knife. She tries to swallow past it.

“You don’t—”

“I know I don’t need to,” Rick says, smiling at her sidelong. “But I want to. Take the clothes, Beth, alright? I want you to have them.”

Beth laces her fingers together, too, and rests them in her lap. “Thanks, Mr. Grimes. I really—this means a lot. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pay you back.”

“You don’t have to. That’s how gifts work.”

Beth scratches her nails against her cutoffs. “Where’s Judy? You got somebody watchin’ her?”

“Nah, I brought her with us. Carl’s got her.”

Since they’re on the subject of Judith, Beth should probably warn Rick about her upcoming job interview. “I, uh. The thing is, Mr. Grimes, I got a job interview lined up for next week, and if they hire me, I won’t be able to sit for Judith as much as I used to. Is that. Will that be alright? I just want you to have the time to find somebody else—”

“Beth.” Rick touches Beth’s shoulder, and she looks him in the face. He’s smiling. “Sweetheart, as soon as I heard you were keeping the pregnancy, I figured I’d better start lookin’ for a new sitter. Even if you don’t get the job—and I’m sure you will—it’s not like you’re gonna have time to watch somebody else’s kid with your own on the way.”

Beth leans into Rick’s side, and he curls his arm around her shoulder. He’s warm and a little sweaty. “I still wanna sit for her when I can, though. If that’s okay.”

Rick’s eyebrows go up, but he says, “Sure it is.”

“I mean, it’ll be good practice, right?” Beth smiles weakly. “For takin’ care of my own baby.” As if she hasn’t been getting practice in for years already, but this will be different. It’ll be practice with _intent_.

“Right,” says Rick, but he doesn’t smile back. He sounds…thoughtful.

They sit like that for a minute, and Beth’s searching for something to say—and also trying to decide if anything _needs_ to be said—when Rick speaks up.

“We were having marriage problems. Me and Lori. Had been for a couple of years. Think we were on our way to splitting up, but then Lori got pregnant.”

Beth was resting her cheek on Rick’s shoulder, but now she lifts her head and stares at him. She’s not sure what to say, and what she eventually settles on comes out halting and inadequate. “But you…y’all seemed so happy.”

Rick smiles wryly. “Guess it looked that way from the outside. And we were, sometimes. Guess it just wasn’t enough.”  

Beth looks away. Looks at the clear tub packed with maternity clothes.

“Honestly, we probably would’ve gotten a divorce not long after Judy was born if Lori hadn’t—” Rick doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to.

_If she hadn’t died._

It’s funny. Sometimes Beth forgets that Lori’s not alive anymore. It’s harder to forget that Annette and Shawn are gone, because they all lived together, because they were always here. But Lori—Lori, she still expects to see whenever she goes over to sit for Judith. She still expects to see her standing in the open doorway, tall and beautiful, still expects to hug her tight and smell her citrusy shampoo. When Beth trudged her way out of the worst of her depression, Lori helped her through it. For a while, she was the closest thing Beth had to a mom.

And now she’s gone, too. Lori’s gone, and sometimes Beth can live with that, but sometimes she feels her absence like an open wound in her gut, a wound to match the ones left behind by Annette and Shawn.

Beth’s eyes are hot, but her cheeks aren’t wet. So she’s not crying, at least.

Rick squeezes her into his side. “She’d be real excited about all this. Worried, too, and pissed as hell at Daryl, but she’d love your baby like it was her own grandkid. I know she would.”

Not. Gonna. Cry. “You don’t think she’d be…disappointed in me?”

“Honey, _no_. No, she wouldn’t. She’d—she’d be proud of you. She would. What you’re doin’, it’s real brave. Lori would understand that better than anybody.”

Beth will never know that for sure, but she trusts the confidence in Rick’s voice. He’s got a way of turning people towards his way of thinking, a kind of charisma that makes him a natural leader. People want to believe in what he says, and Beth is no exception.

Beth scrubs at her dry eyes. “Why’d you. Why’d you tell me about your marriage problems?” She’s still reeling a little from the knowledge that two of the people who showed her what love was supposed to look like could fall apart so easily. She expects she’d feel the same way if someone told her that her own parents had been on the cusp of divorce right before Annette died.

“I dunno. I guess I’m just tryin’ to say that babies don’t solve everything. Usually they just put an even bigger strain on things. And they’re worth it, they are, but it’s not like it is in the movies, you know? They’re not a magical fix for a failing relationship.”

Something about Rick’s little speech strikes Beth as rather _pointed_. Not quite looking Rick in the eye, Beth says, “Daryl and I aren’t—” Oh, hell. Why bother lying to a cop? “I mean, it’s not like we’re _married_ or anything. I think it’s too soon to worry about breaking up.”

“Yeah, I know it is. But Daryl’s never been in a real relationship before, and this sh— _stuff_ takes work. Just _listen_ to each other, okay? Whatever else happens, you gotta communicate, or things won’t work out in the long run.”

Things won’t work out in the long run, and then circumstances might conspire to see that they never do. Okay. Beth’s got it. She nods her head.

Rick gives her a squeeze, then pushes to his feet with a muffled groan. “I gotta get goin’. Michonne’s expectin’ us.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Take care, alright? And see about comin’ over to visit next week—not to sit, just to visit. You and Daryl.”

Beth nods again, blushing, and Rick ruffles her hair before stooping to kiss her on top of her head. This time, Beth hears his boots on the hardwood, and then the sound of him and Carl calling their goodbyes followed by the rattle of the screen door.

Beth folds her hands over her abdomen. “We’re gonna be okay,” she whispers. “You and me, we’re gonna be okay.”

All three of them are going to be okay. They gotta be.

This time, Beth doesn’t hear the footsteps, but not because she isn't paying attention. Just because the person approaching her is that naturally silent.  

Daryl folds himself down next to her. Beth takes his hand, and his callused fingers immediately curl around hers.  

Beth points her chin at the clear tubs. “Did Carl tell you about those?”

“Yeah.” His voice is even rougher than usual, rough like it was when he showed her his scars.

She knows that he's thinking about Lori, too. About what happened to her. About what he imagines could happen to Beth.

“I’ll be alright, Daryl. Nothing’s gonna happen to me.”

Daryl turns his head and looks at her, and his face is still, but his eyes are burning. He doesn’t say anything, but Beth hears his argument anyway. _You don’t know that._

Beth doesn’t argue back. She leans her head on Daryl’s shoulder and asks him, “You wanna stay over for dinner?”

Daryl responds faster than she thought he would. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Okay,” says Beth. Just that. _Okay._

They’re gonna be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've settled on a name for the Bethyl Baby. It will still be some time before it's revealed in-story, but I hope y'all will like it as much as I do. 
> 
> You might also be interested to know that smut is (finally) on the horizon. Like, probably not in Chapter 12. But Soon.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hi, PLEASE take a look at the [gorgeous edit](https://mygutsforgarters.tumblr.com/post/187949700254) that the BEAUTIFUL and MULTI-TALENTED kattyshack made for this fic!! It's largely responsible for kicking my ass into gear as far as writing this chapter's concerned. 
> 
> Speaking of Maj: if you're reading this, then you must like contemporary romance AUs. And if you like contemporary romance AUs but haven't discovered Maj's fic yet, then I insist that you read her WIP [cross my heart, pretty darlin’, over you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227051/chapters/47936182). Like, right now. It's fine. I'll still be here when you get back.

**Wednesday, August 28 th**

When he was giving her a tour of the autoshop, Tyreese made certain to direct Beth’s attention to his pride and joy, the little solid brass bell that’s mounted above the front door. According to Tyreese, brass produces a warmer, clearer sound than anything you could get out of an electronic bell, and given Beth’s background in music, she’s inclined to agree. She tends to glance up reflexively whenever it rings, but she doesn’t look this time, too absorbed in the block of text on her computer monitor’s screen to pay her surroundings much attention. If a customer needs something, they’ll come speak to her. And if the bell signaled an exit rather than an entry, then it’s a moot point, anyway.

Because, look. Beth was sick as a dog all last night, and she gave serious consideration to saying the hell with it and calling off this morning—probably would have, if she wasn’t just starting out and desperate to make a good impression. Tyreese and Sasha strike her as understanding folks, but Beth doesn’t want to press her luck, not when it’s already gotten her this far. She was surprised enough when Sasha called her back on the day of her interview, asking her when she could start; even with Daryl vouching for her, she hadn’t really thought that the Williamses would want to take on a girl who’d have to either quit or go on maternity leave in another six months.

She was hoping—legitimately praying to God, really—that her spurts of violent nausea would ease off as she moved into her second trimester, but according to her favorite pregnancy website, morning sickness can take as long as sixteen to twenty weeks to clear up entirely. Again, Beth thinks of how her mother _and_ her maternal grandmother were spared from anything resembling morning sickness, and she silently curses her father’s side of the family, because their genetics are _clearly_ responsible for this hell she’s in.

A sharp tap finally pulls Beth’s attention away from her monitor, and she quickly minimizes the window before plastering on her best customer service smile, which, according to Sasha, is almost as disturbingly genuine as Tyreese’s. Beth debated telling her that depression has a way of teaching you to fake a smile with the best of them, and fast, only to decide that that would be too much information by far. Tyreese and Sasha took a risk when they hired a pregnant teenager. If they knew that they hired a pregnant teenager with depressive tendencies, they’d probably start searching for excuses to let her go, and they wouldn’t even have to search that hard.

Beth’s impenetrable smile nearly flickers, though, when she realizes that the guy standing in front of her desk just rapped his knuckles on the counter to get her attention instead of saying “Excuse me” like a normal person. What exactly does he think this is?

Her smile takes yet another hit as she dissects the guy’s expression. The way he’s looking at her, it’s—well, _funny_ doesn’t really do it justice, but that’s the best she’s got. He doesn’t seem inclined to maintain eye contact, for starters, and maybe he’s just annoyed with her for spacing out, but Beth swears that there’s more to it than that.

Well, whatever. Beth ratchets her smile up another notch and injects her voice with a brightness that’s borderline combative, just _daring_ this guy to have a problem with her. “May I help—”

“Yeah, the repairs to my car were supposed to be finished up, like, yesterday? Can you tell me what’s going on with that?”

Okay, so he’s one of _those_ people. Great. “I’m very sorry, sir, but our mechanics can only estimate how much time it’ll take to repair any given vehicle. They have to wait for new parts to come in, and there’s always the chance that they’ll discover new issues while they’re—”  

“Yeah, alright, I get it.” The guy raps his knuckles against the countertop again, even though he—unfortunately—already has Beth’s full attention. “Can you check, anyway?”

Beth sucks back a retort—she’s usually better than this at maintaining a polite façade, but she had a _really_ bad night, okay—and looks the guy over. Something about him just _bugs_ her, and she’s not even talking about his unforgivably awful attitude. It’s only that he looks—well, he looks a little _familiar_. Granted, Beth’s worked here for a week, so it’s possible that she’s seen him around before. Of course, Tyreese and Sasha still take turns at the front desk on her days off, so it’s also possible that she hasn’t.

“Name and vehicle, please.”

“A black 2019 Mercedes-Benz G-Class.” Because of course it is. “And it should be under the name Monroe. Spencer Monroe.”

Out of sight beneath the desk, Beth’s fingers clench into fists.

Well. _Well_. At least now she knows _why_ he looked so familiar. He’s one of the idiot boys she saw outside the Planned Parenthood. He’s the one who’s been telling anyone who’ll listen that Sherriff Rick Grimes knocked her up.

Beth’s stomach gives a hard lurch, like someone sank their hand into her guts and gave a mighty _pull_ , but it’s not because of her morning sickness. Not this time. Her face and fingers are numb, her heart’s galloping about a mile a minute, and all of a sudden everything is just _too much_. The fluorescents in the ceiling are too bright, the hum of the computer’s tower is too loud, and this room is too small. Way, way too small, and if Beth doesn’t get out of here _right now_ , she’s gonna have a panic attack. She’s gonna start screaming. She’s gonna haul off and slap this son of a bitch clear across his tapioca-pudding _face_ —

The guy—Spencer, right, how could she forget, and of course his name is fucking _Spencer_ —has the nerve to snap his fingers in Beth’s face. “Uh, excuse me? You spacing out or something?”

Beth blinks, too hard and too fast, same as she does when she’s stemming tears. The look Spencer’s giving her isn’t flattering, but he doesn’t appear guilty or caught out, either. And Beth wouldn’t expect someone like him to feel bad about being a dick, but beneath the mounting upsurge of her panic, she registers _surprise_. Surprise that Spencer doesn’t look at least a little embarrassed.

And it hits her that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that _she_ knows. He doesn’t know that his name got back to her via Amy and Jimmy.

Her nails bite into her palms. What should she do? Should she call him out on it? No. She can’t do that. She can’t do that at _work_. But, God, there’s an honest-to-goodness _shout_ building in her throat, and if she doesn’t let her emotions out _somehow_ —

“There a problem over here?”

Beth jumps, and her desk chair goes wheeling back a couple inches. The door to the garage is open—when did that happen?—and Abraham, the burly redhead Beth saw the first day she came here, is striding towards the desk. At his side is another mechanic whose shifts tend to line up with Beth’s—Oscar. Beth’s still kind of leery of Abraham—he’s never harassed her or anything, but he’s really big and really loud, and he likes to pop into the lobby during his breaks just to bug her—but she’s grown fond of Oscar, and he appears to reciprocate the feeling in his own subdued way.

Beth goes to answer Abraham’s question, but Spencer talks over her—talks loudly, too, like he wants all of the other customers to know just how incompetent she is. “Yeah, your secretary—”

 _Receptionist_ , Beth thinks, annoyance cutting through her anxiety. And Spencer’s got a lot of nerve, pretending that he doesn’t know _exactly_ who she is.

 “—doesn’t seem to be any good at her job. I’d start advertising for a new one, if I were you.”  

“Yeah, well, thank fuckin’ shit that you _ain’t_ me,” Abraham drawls, and Spencer’s eyeballs near about fall out of their sockets. And it’s funny, because Beth was perched on the cliff’s edge of panic just a second ago, but now she feels like laughing.

“And he wasn’t asking you,” Oscar adds before Spencer can recover. He doesn’t exactly smile at Beth, but his voice gets markedly warmer when he speaks to her. “Everything alright out here?”

“It fuckin’ better be,” says Abraham, and while he’s not cracking his knuckles or anything, his tone _implies_ cracked knuckles—along with contusions, and lacerations, and maybe a few broken bones while he’s at it.

Oh, hell. If the Williamses lose Spencer’s business because of Beth, she’ll have to resign out of shame even if they _don’t_ fire her. And as much as she appreciates the sentiment behind Abraham and Oscar’s intervention, she’s gonna be real pissed if Abraham winds up knocking a paying customer’s teeth down his throat on _her_ account.    

This time, Beth hears the whine of door hinges, and she peers over her shoulder to watch Sasha step out of her office. She disappeared into it earlier this morning clutching a huge thermos of coffee and mumbling something about overdue paperwork, and Beth hasn’t seen her since—till now, that is. Dark circles hang like quarter moons beneath her pretty brown eyes, and the grip she’s got on her phone is white knuckled, but the smile she turns on Spencer is consummately professional.

Beth’s stomach gives another lurch, this one made of equal parts dread and relief. Relief, because she knows that Sasha will deescalate the situation. Dread, because this day could end with her getting fired, and, God, please don’t let that happen. She’ll never be able to look Daryl in the eye again if it does.  

“Hey, there.” Sasha approaches the desk and lays a gentle hand on Beth’s shoulder. “Beth, isn’t it about time for your break?”

“Uh.” Beth glances at her computer’s clock. “I don’t th—”

“No, yeah, it definitely is. Why don’t you take it in my office while I help out Mister—?”

“Monroe,” Spencer says after a beat, still eyeing Abraham and Oscar—mostly Abraham—like they’re wielding crowbars or something. Which they kind of are, metaphorically speaking.  

“Mr. Monroe, hi, we’ve talked on the phone. You’ve got the G-Wagon, right?”

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”

Sasha gives Beth a gentle nudge, and, heart sinking like a rock in a pond, Beth does as she’s told, grabbing her backpack from where she stowed it beneath the desk and shuffling through the open office door. Abraham and Oscar nod at her in passing, like they’re trying to reassure her or something, but it doesn’t make Beth feel any better. Nothing good can ever come of being summoned to your boss’s office.

“Hey, what’re y’all still doing out here? Get back to work.”

“Aw, Sasha, don’t be like that—”

“What’d I just say? Get outta here, Ford.”

Beth shuts the office door on Abraham’s protests and turns to face the interior. It’s about the size of a small walk-in closet, but it’s got a window, and the walls are painted sky blue, so Beth doesn’t feel as trapped as she might have otherwise. There’s a single green plastic chair facing the metal desk that Tyreese and Sasha share, and Beth grabs it and turns it around to face the door before plopping down onto the seat with her backpack clutched to her stomach. She digs into the canvas to keep herself from picking at the skin around her fingernails, but there’s not much she can do to stop her leg from bouncing, and anyway, she needs an outlet for her restless energy.

Sasha doesn’t leave Beth to stew for long, at least, coming in a minute later and shutting the door behind her.

“Hey.” Sasha’s smile is warm. If only that were enough to alleviate Beth’s anxiety. “Sorry about that.”

And, um. _What_? “ _You’re_ sorry? I’m the one who—”

“Didn’t do anything wrong,” Sasha says firmly. Instead of crossing the room to take a seat behind the desk, she leans against the shut door, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. “We got a policy around here—asshole customers aren’t worth the trouble it takes to keep them around.”

Liquid relief rushes through Beth. Good thing she’s already sitting down, or else she might _fall_ down. “Is everything, um. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Can’t promise that the G-Wagon’s engine won’t go missing under mysterious circumstances, though.” Beth can’t stifle her giggle, and Sasha rolls her eyes good naturedly. “You wanna tell me what happened out there? You don’t have to,” she adds when Beth hesitates. “Just sayin’ that you can.”

“Nothin’,” Beth says reflexively, deflating a little when Sasha arches an eyebrow at her. Sasha said that Beth didn’t have to tell her, but if she _is_ going to tell her, Sasha probably wouldn’t want her to downplay it.

Beth sighs. “He was, um. Spencer, he saw me at the Planned Parenthood this one time. Him and his buddies were staging a protest—”

Sasha snorts to let Beth know exactly what she thinks of _that_ , and Beth takes a second to smile wryly before continuing.

“Yeah, I know. Stupid, right? So, anyway, Spencer saw me and put two and two together—got a few things wrong, but the point is he’s been tellin’ folks that I’m pregnant. It’s ’cause of him that my dad found out before I could tell him myself.”

Sasha hisses through her teeth, the kind of noise people make when they get a splash of peroxide to an open scrape. “Jesus, what an asshole. You gonna be alright?”

 _She really wants to know,_ Beth thinks. She’s not just asking to be polite.

Hot pressure builds up behind Beth’s eyeballs, and she blinks it away before saying in a voice that cracks, “Yeah, I. I think so. Really,” she stresses when Sasha gives her a _look_. “I just, um. Thanks for gettin’ me outta that. Really. You got, um.” Beth giggles again. “You got really good timing.”

“Nah.” Sasha pats her pocket. “Oscar texted me. Said you looked real upset, wanted to know if there was anything I could do about it.”

“Still. Thank you.” She’ll have to thank Oscar, too—and Abraham, even if his methods could use some work.

“It’s all good.” Sasha’s tired eyes light up. “I was looking for an excuse to bail out on paperwork for a couple of minutes, anyway.”

Beth’s laugh is louder this time, fuller. She doesn’t know what she did to deserve such an understanding pair of bosses—because she’s fairly certain that Tyreese’s reaction to this whole situation would’ve been much the same as his sister’s—but thank God for them both.

“I should, um. I should get back to work.”

“Nah. You’re on break, remember?” Beth tries to protest, but Sasha isn’t having it. “Look, you might as well, okay? Give that spoiled rotten little shit some time to clear out, at least.”

Well…alright. Maybe Beth gives in a little too easily, but Sasha’s the boss, not her. “Alright. Thanks.”

“Mhm. Just chill out in here for a little while, alright? I’ll come get you in a few.” Sasha gives Beth a parting smile, then leaves.

The isolation’s does Beth some good, at first—gives her the chance to breathe and soak up the silence—but it gets boring fast, and her leg’s already bouncing again by the time she goes rooting through her bag in search of something with which to occupy herself. She unearths a chocolate bar and a romance novel and goes flipping through the latter while she bites into the former. When she got the call back from Sasha, Daryl went out and bought her an entire bag of expensive Godiva chocolate to celebrate, and even though she scolded him for blowing his paycheck on something so superfluous, she still blasted through it pretty darn quick. This bar is all she has left, but if there was ever a time she needed chocolate, it’s right now.

Besides, she’s eating for two now, and she’s come to strongly suspect that Lil’ Dixon has inherited their momma’s sweet tooth.

Beth’s gotten halfway through the tenth chapter of her book when the office door clicks open, and she sets it down on her thigh as she crumples the chocolate wrapper in her fist. She wasn’t expecting Sasha back quite this soon, but she’s calmed down enough by now that she _thinks_ she can handle actually doing her job.

Except it’s not Sasha. It’s Daryl, the top half of his coveralls unzipped and tied off around his waist to reveal the white t-shirt beneath, wiping his hands clean with a red rag as he nudges the door shut behind him. Beth’s heart jumps to see him; she doubts there’ll ever come a time when it doesn’t.

“Hiya,” she says.

“Hey.” Daryl stuffs the rag into his back pocket, then crosses to Beth and kneels at her feet. His hands flex around thin air for a minute before finally taking hold of hers. “Y’alright?”

Beth doesn’t have to look in a mirror to know that her smile is self-deprecating. “Which one of ’em told you?”

Daryl doesn’t return her smile, but then, she didn’t expect him to. “Sasha did.”

“I’ll bet that Mr. Ford was happy to embellish, though, wasn’t he?”

“Abe’s got a big mouth, but it ain’t him I’m pissed at.” Daryl squeezes her hands tight, but not tight enough to hurt. Even when he’s pissed at the world—maybe _especially_ then—he’s always so careful with her. “C’mon, now, you gonna tell me if you’re alright or not? Ain’t a goddamn mind reader, girl.”

“Iunno about that. Sometimes it seems like you are, ’least when it comes to me.” Daryl doesn’t even bother snorting dismissively at her, which clues Beth in to just how upset he really is. She disentangles one of her hands from his and smooths it over the curve of his skull, fingers ruffling through his hair. “I’m alright, Daryl. Promise.”

Daryl doesn’t look convinced. His right hand clings to hers, but his left sneaks up her skirt and smooths over her knee—he’s not copping a feel, though. He’s just trying to soothe her, and himself. “Y’know I’m the one who was workin’ on that prick’s fuckin’ G-Wagon? Oughta bust its fuckin’ taillights out, see how he likes _that_ shit.”

Beth giggles, albeit a little nervously. “Please don’t do that. You’ll get in trouble.”

“Yeah, alright. How ’bout I bust the sumbitch’s _kneecaps_ instead?”

Oh, Jesus. “ _Please_ don’t. You’ll go to jail, and I’ll miss you.”

Daryl’s expression flickers when she says that, but it doesn’t soften, and while Beth doesn’t think that he’d _actually_ do anything to land himself in jail, not when he’s got a pregnant girlfriend to consider, he sounded downright _hateful_ when he was talking about Spencer, and Beth’s heard of people getting their asses beat for less.

So, as much for his sake as hers, she pushes her book and her backpack out of her lap and slides into _his_ , thighs bracketing his hips, arms twisting around his neck. Daryl hesitates for a second, the way he usually does when she initiates physical contact without warning him first, but that hesitance lasts only a second, and in the _next_ second, he’s cinching his arms around her waist and holding her firmly to him. She’s not getting away unless he says so, and that’s weirdly comforting.

He’s just so _strong_ , in all sorts of ways. Beth wishes he could see even half of them.

“I just.” Beth plants her face in Daryl’s shoulder and sighs into his sweaty t-shirt. “I don’t even care what Spencer has to say about _me_.” Daryl makes a rumbling noise of protest, but Beth ignores him. “He probably still thinks that Mr. Grimes was the one who knocked me up, but everyone’ll find out its yours eventually, and I don’t want ’em sayin’ nasty things about you _or_ our baby.”

“Ain’t gonna let ’em say shit about you _or_ the kid.” Daryl’s broad palm strokes up and down Beth’s back before settling on the curve of her hip, which is more pronounced than it was a month ago. She isn’t really showing yet, but she’s definitely gained some weight. “But folks’ve been side eyeing me my whole damn life, girl. S’just how it is, when you’re no-good white trash. M’used to it.”

And, coming from anybody else, that’d sound self-pitying, but Daryl—he just sounds resigned. Blasé, even, like that’s just how it is and how it’s always gonna be. Like it’s no big deal.

But it _is_. It _is_ a big deal.

She wants to burn down everything and everyone who ever made him feel worthless. It isn’t in her power to do that, but that doesn’t mean she can’t do _something_.

“You ain’t _trash_ ,” Beth says hotly, pulling away from Daryl’s shoulder to catch and hold his downcast eyes. “And you ain’t no good, either. You _are_ good, Daryl. You’re one’a the best things that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t wanna hear you sayin’ any different.”

Daryl blushes, coughs. “Shaddup.”

Beth trails her fingers through his scruff, cups his jaw and presses her thumb against his chin. “Why don’t you try an’ make me, huh?”

She’s baiting him, obviously and shamelessly, and she expects him to roll his eyes and scoff—which he _does_ , but then he looks at her in this _intent_ way that makes her feel like he just shoved his hand past her waistband and started fingering at her clit. He looks at her _like that_ , and then he tilts his head and plucks a kiss then two then _more_ off her mouth, sucking the taste of chocolate off her lips and humming like it and _her_ are the best damn things he’s ever tasted. And, Jesus, but this man has a way of kissing her that’s at once gentle and hungry, like he doesn’t want to scare her off but can’t do anything to hide how badly he needs her, either. Not just want. _Need_.

And she _gets_ that, she _does_ , because she needs him, too.

She’s gotten good and acquainted with Daryl’s way of kissing her, too, because they’ve been doing a _lot_ of it lately, usually on his couch when Merle isn’t home but sometimes in his truck, making out so hard and for so long that they usually fog up the windows.

They haven’t done much more than kissing, though—haven’t even gotten partially undressed, unless she counts that time Daryl showed her his scars. She thinks they might be getting there, though, especially with the way Daryl just sank his hands down her back to cup the swell of her ass and urge her hips into a slow roll against his. Yeah, they’re definitely getting there.

They can’t get there _right now_ , though, a fact that Daryl reinforces when he holds Beth’s seeking hips still and breaks off from kissing her to bury his panting mouth in the crook of her neck. “ _Fuck_. You best cut that out, girl.”

As if he wasn’t the one to urge her into movement in the first place, but maybe he hadn’t expected her to react _quite_ so enthusiastically. More fool him, though, if he doesn’t grasp the extent to which he affects her.

Beth smiles and presses her nose and mouth to the side of Daryl’s head, inhaling sweat and motor oil. “Or what?” She wriggles her hips pointedly, gets her pussy riding his stiff dick through his coveralls, and his answering growl makes every fine hair on her body stand up.

Daryl leans back to look her in the eye, and _his_ eyes flicker uncertainly before settling into a hot glare. He leans back in, so close that Beth has to cross her eyes to keep him in focus, and speaks directly against her mouth, scruff rubbing her swollen lips raw. “Or I’mma bend you over that desk and fuck the ever-lovin’ shit outta ya, that’s fuckin’ what.”

The noise Beth makes right then is entirely involuntary, this guttural _thing_ that gets yanked out of the very pit of her stomach on an invisible hook. Her skin erupts in goosebumps, and her cunt, already swollen up tight and hot from kissing him and grinding against his lap, spasms and goes slick.

Looks like she should’ve brought a change of underwear to work. She’ll keep that in mind next time.

When she talks, it’s in a whisper, because otherwise, her voice would crack. “And if that’s what I want you to do?”

Daryl groans like she’s killing him—and maybe she is, a little bit—and plants his face in her neck again, beard tickling her over-sensitive skin. “Yeah, sure, an’ get both our asses fired while I’m at it. Good idea.”

“I dunno.” Beth giggles breathlessly and twists her fingers in Daryl’s hair. “Sasha seems like a pretty understanding lady.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she’ll be real fuckin’ understanding when I get jizz all over her nice desk.”

“ _Gross_ ,” Beth says, but she’s still giggling. Daryl pinches her ass, making her yelp, before smoothing his hand over the curve of it and giving it a fond squeeze.

“Still wish we could get back at ’im, though,” he grumbles, and it takes Beth a second to remember what they were talking about before everything devolved into the kind of sexual tension that leaves her feeling choked.

But, yeah.

Right.

If Beth were a better Christian, she’d tell Daryl that revenge isn’t the answer. How’s that one Bible verse go? _Vengeance is Mine, I will repay._

Huh.

Actually—

Beth sucks her lower lip into her mouth, eyes darting almost manically around the room as a thought takes root in her brain.

Daryl tugs gently on her ponytail to get her attention. “What?”

Beth starts to grin—and once she starts, she can’t seem to stop. “Nothin’. It’s just—I think I got an idea.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ❤️❤️❤️

**Sunday, September 1 st**

 

Beth slips her hand into the crook of Daryl’s elbow and lifts up on her toes to speak directly into his ear. “You look about ready to bolt, there, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl’s beard scratches her cheek when he turns his head to look at her—to _scowl_ at her, actually.

“Already sat through the fuckin’ sermon, didn’t I?” he grouches, tugging on the hem of his blue button-up like he can’t wait to change out of it and back into one of his sleeveless flannels, and he probably can’t—although Beth thinks that the rolled-up sleeves on _this_ shirt do his forearms quite a few favors. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Beth curls _her_ fingers in his shirt, then, and smiles softly when he meets her eyes. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? You can go home right now if you want; I won’t hold it against you.”

But even as she says it, she knows he won’t take the out. _She_ might not hold it against him, but _he_ would definitely hold it against _himself_. He’d never ditch her to face this on her own, and she’s starting to wish that she hadn’t suggested it at all, not when she’s well aware of his inability to say no to her.  

But it’s too late to turn back now.

And just like Beth figured he would, Daryl shakes his head. Shifts from foot to foot and snags his fingers in the folds of her dress, reminding her of how she used to act whenever her parents would drag her to some crowded social gathering as a kid, of how she’d follow her momma around like a little lost duckling and hide behind her legs whenever a strange adult tried to speak to her. She wonders, abruptly, if Lil’ Dixon will be shy and quiet like their parents, or if they’ll be more outspoken like their Aunt Maggie and Uncle Merle.

Well. Hopefully not _exactly_ like their Uncle Merle. He’s growing on her, sure—kind of like toe fungus—but she doesn’t think she could deal with _two_ of him running around.

Speak of the devil. Merle wandered off a couple minutes ago—probably to have a smoke by the truck, from the smell of him, since Daryl won’t let him light up around Beth—but now he reappears by his brother’s shoulder, a jagged grin cracking his weathered face in two when he sniffs out Daryl’s obvious discomfort.

“ _Shiiit_ , brother. Ya must be havin’ a helluva time of it, huh?”

Daryl grumbles unintelligibly and evasively, but Merle’s grin just grows. “This’un’s on you, sweet pea,” he tells Beth. “Ya forgot t’warn Daryl here that payin’ his respects ta the Lord was gonna involve this much goddamn socializin’.”

Guilt threatens to overwhelm Beth again, but she’ll only worry Daryl if he sees it on her face, so she does her best to cover it up with a bit of gentle teasing. “C’mon, now, Mr. Dixon. It’s Sunday church in the South. What else’d you expect?”

Merle cackles and elbows Daryl in the ribs, darting out of reach when his brother swats at him. This is probably the most fun he’s had in months, actually, seeing as he can’t go out and get into bar brawls for as long as he’s on parole.

“S’what I told ’im,” says Merle, scratching idly at a bug bite on his arm. “If he could be fucked to step inside a house’a God every once in a while, he’d’a known.”

That’s another thing about Merle that surprised Beth: he’s a believer, really and truly. Doesn’t get to church that often, but he believes. Beth didn’t even have to invite him along—he invited himself.

“Don’t start preachin’ at me,” Daryl tells his brother, giving him a shove that lands this time. Oh, gosh, Beth _really_ hopes that the pair of them don’t get into it in a church parking lot. “Got enough’a that shit in there.” To Beth, he says, “We doin’ this or what?”

Beth’s not sure if they _should_ , actually, not with the way Daryl’s looking, but she obligingly stretches up on her toes and shades her eyes against the late morning sunlight that’s streaming down from the cloudless sky, squinting across the parking lot to where she last saw Spencer and his family. The mayor and her husband are gone, but Spencer’s still there, and so’s his grandmother.

Beth falls back onto the flats of her feet, then glances around for her own family. She spots them by Rick’s Hyundai—the Grimeses aren’t Sunday regulars, especially not with a fussy baby to consider, but they turn up sometimes—and deliberates over asking Maggie to come along with her and Daryl before deciding that one volatile factor in this equation is quite enough. If Daryl doesn’t hit Spencer, then Maggie almost certainly will.

 _Make that_ two _volatile factors_ , Beth thinks when Merle falls into step with her and Daryl.

“Uh, Merle,” she says. “Why don’t you just wait in the car, huh?”

“What, like the goddamn family dog?” Merle’s bark of laughter _is_ a little canine, come to think of it. “Fuck that. S’my job to keep Daryl’s ass outta trouble. Don’t want ’im knockin’ that pussy rich boy’s teeth out and landin’ ’imself in jail on your account, d’ya?”

No, she really doesn’t, but Daryl just scoffs like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Keep _my_ ass outta trouble? Think you got it backwards, bro.”

Oh, for God’s sake. Beth has neither the time nor the patience to endure this little pissing contest of theirs, so she tightens her hold on Daryl and wraps her other hand around Merle’s arm, smiling sweetly at him when he gives her the hairy eyeball.

“How about _I_ keep _both’a_ y’all outta trouble?” she suggests. Daryl rolls his eyes, but Merle snickers.

“Dunno if ya can, honey. Sure you up for the challenge?”

“I think I can handle it,” Beth says, even though she doesn’t feel half as confident as she sounds.

The Dixons seem to buy it, anyway, and they allow her to steer them both along, their combined bulk cutting through the thinning crowd like a pair of sharks through a school of fish. Beth’s long skirt froths around her legs as she walks, bright white against the dark gray of the repaved parking lot.

It’s the prettiest piece of clothing she owns, modestly cut with billowing short sleeves and a high enough neck, lacy skirt flaring out around her ankles like a mermaid’s tailfin. She looks like a bride in this dress—looks like a _virgin_ —and she absolutely wore it to make a point.

Maggie had smirked when she saw her earlier this morning, and if their daddy’s subsequent sigh was a little longsuffering, well—frankly, he should’ve expected something like this from Annette Greene’s daughter.

Spencer blanches when he sees Beth—or, more likely, when he sees the big, mean-looking men who’re bookending her—but Granny Monroe’s face flickers only briefly before settling into an aggressively polite smile to rival Beth’s own. And, sure, she’s been honing her weaponized southern manners for longer than Beth’s been alive, but Beth’s running on sheer fucking _spite_ , and it goes a long way.

“Hiya, Mrs. Monroe,” Beth says, as sweet and biting as sugared lemonade. “I heard about your gallbladder surgery. It’s good to see you up and walkin’ around.” _You mean old bat._

Spencer eyeballs Beth from over his grandmother’s shoulder, but Granny Monroe doesn’t even flinch—not that Beth expected her to. Not just yet. “Why, thank you, honey. This old body of mine ain’t what it used to be—I can hardly believe I was up and movin’ around just a day after havin’ Spencer’s daddy. I don’t suppose that’ll be a problem for you, either, sweetheart—you’re so _young_. I’m sure you’ll bounce back right away.”

Daryl tenses under Beth’s hand, muscles locking up tight, but it’s okay. She saw this coming; wouldn’t’ve given Mrs. Monroe an opening like that if she hadn’t.

“Well,” says Beth, “I always wanted to have a whole bunch’a kids, anyways, so I thought, ‘Might as well get a head start,’ y’know?”  

Merle’s sudden coughing fit does _nothing at all_ to cover up his laughter. Beth pinches the inside of his forearm, but it’s too late: Granny Monroe’s already looking at him like he just took a dump on her sitting room carpet.

“That’s the spirit,” she says, the reflexive curl of her upper lip putting a bit of a dent in her polite smile. “You gotta think positive; that’s why my daddy always said. Beth, honey, aren’t you goin’ to introduce me to your friends, here?”

“Oh!” says Beth, like she forgot Daryl and Merle were there at all. “I’m sorry; I should’ve said somethin’ sooner. This here’s Daryl Dixon, and this is his big brother, Merle. They’re friends of the family.”

“Is that right?” says Granny Monroe. “Well, it’s awful nice to meet you boys—”

“Christ,” says Spencer, speaking up for the first time since Beth and the Dixons got here. “Can we just cut the bullshit already?”

Beth can _feel_ Merle smirking, but Granny Monroe doesn’t appear half so amused. “Spencer _Monroe_ , how many times do I gotta tell you to watch your mouth in polite company?”

But Spencer doesn’t pay his grandmother any mind; just keeps bulldozing forward. “Don’t you get it, Gran? Sherriff Grimes sent his redneck buddies on over here to scare us straight. Probably doesn’t like what we’ve been saying about his baby momma.”

Granny Monroe flushes fire-engine red, looking fit to combust, but Beth curtails her potential stroke with a peal of laughter, and when the Monroes goggle at her, she shrugs one shoulder.  

“Sorry. It’s just—y’all’ve got it all wrong. Mr. Grimes ain’t my baby daddy.” Beth tips her head to the right. “ _Daryl_ is.”

Granny Monroe’s watery blue eyes bulge behind her bifocal glasses, but Spencer recovers faster, giving Daryl a look that sets Beth’s teeth on edge.

“Figures,” he pronounces, and, God, how can anyone be this much of an _asshole_? “That’s how you got that job at the garage, isn’t it? You let some old redneck fuck you, so he pulled a few strings with his boss. Word of advice? Next time, use a condom.”

Daryl jerks against Beth’s hold like a dog on the end of a chain, but _he’s_ not the one who winds up giving Spencer a bloody nose. Merle isn’t, either.

No. It’s _Jimmy_ who does that.

“ _Fuck_.” Spencer’s hands fly up to shield his bloody face while Granny Monroe shrieks like a banshee off to one side. “Man, what the _fuck_?”

“You sonofa _bitch_.” Jimmy takes another sloppy swing at Spencer, who ducks out of the way at the last second, clutching his busted nose. God, when did he even get _over_ here? “Just who the hell d’you think you are, huh, talkin’ to her like that? M’gonna kick your balls up ya damn throat, swear to fuckin’ _God_ —”

“ _Jimmy_ ,” Beth says, but Daryl’s already swinging her around behind him, stepping between her and the escalating fight while Merle shamelessly eggs the two boys on.

“Hit ’im harder!” he hoots, paying no mind to Beth’s quelling look.

“Jimmy,” she tries again, letting out a frustrated huff when Daryl wraps a hand around her hip to hold her still. “Jimmy, would you just _stop it_?”

But Jimmy’s not listening to her. Couldn’t pay her much attention, anyway, because now he’s gotta concentrate on dodging Spencer, who’s finally recovered enough from the shock of his busted nose to fight back. He nearly lands a blow to Jimmy’s face, too, only to go reeling when a good-sized purse appears out of nowhere and wallops him over the damn head.

A good-sized purse that’s wielded by none other than _Amy_.

 _Oh my God_ , thinks Beth. _Where do they keep_ coming _from?_

“You _asshole_ ,” Amy seethes, giving Spencer another whack while Mrs. Monroe screams for someone to call the police. “You—slimy—son—of—a— _bitch_!”

“Hoo- _ee_.” Merle grins at Beth and Daryl like they’re in on the same joke and rattles the change in his pocket. “Y’all wanna bet on this shit? ’Cause my money’s on th’ lil’ blond girl.”

Beth just groans and covers her face with her hands.

 

* * *

 

Beth crosses her arms and spears Jimmy with a scathing look. “I’ll tell you somethin’, Jimmy—you are _damn_ lucky that Mr. Grimes talked the Monroes outta pressing charges.”

Jimmy glares at her out of one eye—just the one, because the other’s swollen shut. “Get off my case, would you, damn.”

Daryl bristles at her side, but she’s doing some bristling of her own. “I wouldn’t _be_ on your case if you’d just stayed outta my business!”

Jimmy breaks eye contact. Sniffs. “Spencer’s an asshole.”

Yeah, and what else is new? “He’s _your_ friend.”

“Not anymore, he ain’t.”

Well. That’s something, at least.

Amy glances up from her phone. She’s not as worse for the wear as Jimmy is, but her hair’s a mess, and Andrea had to forcibly confiscate her purse to prevent her from beating on Spencer any more than she already had. “Jimmy’s right, though. Spencer _is_ an asshole.”

“Yeah, no shit,” says Merle. “Got what was comin’ to ’im, though, didn’ he?”

Amy and Jimmy look at Merle like they’re not completely sure what to do with him, which is fair. They’re both perched on the lowered tailgate of the McCunes’ truck, waiting for Jimmy’s parents and Amy’s sister to finish speaking to Rick. Beth’s folks are over there, too, probably to double check that Beth can’t be held responsible for what her friends did.

“Look,” Beth sighs, hugging her crossed arms to her stomach. “I don’t care _what_ Spencer said or did, alright? Violence is never the answer—”

Merle scoffs. Beth ignores him.

“—and the two of you could’a gotten into real trouble if it weren’t for Mr. Grimes stickin’ his neck out like he did. Y’all better send him a thank-you note, _at least_.”

Jimmy scowls at his feet, but Amy just grins and says, “Yes, _Mom_.”

Jimmy’s scowl melts into a smirk, and he winces when the stretch agitates his split lip. “Quit fussin’, Beth, Jesus. You don’t gotta mother us just ’cause you got a baby on the way, damn.”

“Shut up,” Beth grumbles, but Amy and Jimmy just keep on smirking at her. Jimmy’s probably punch drunk, at least, but Amy didn’t get hit, so she doesn’t have an excuse for acting the way she is.

“I still can’t believe y’all,” Beth says, stern words belied by the hug she gives Amy a second later. “Wasn’t a fan of the execution,” she mumbles into her friend’s frazzled hair. “But I appreciate the sentiment. Thanks.”

Amy squeezes her around the waist. “Any time,” she says, and, yeah. Beth sure hopes not, actually.

She kisses Amy on the cheek, though, before shuffling on over to Jimmy and giving him a hug, too. He goes all stiff for a second, either startled by the gesture or wary of Daryl’s watchful gaze, before slumping into her embrace and giving her an awkward pat on the back.

“You too, Jimmy,” says Beth. “Thanks for caring.”

“Uh-huh,” Jimmy mumbles, cheek heating up under Beth’s mouth when she gives it a brief kiss. He leans away from her and scratches the underside of his jaw. “Don’t mention it.” His eyes dart over her shoulder, and his mouth twists, but he’s not looking in Daryl’s direction.

His parents must be on their way over, then. And, yeah, there they are, Andrea following close on their heels.

“Get in the car, Jimmy.” Mrs. McCune jingles her keys impatiently and spares Beth a stiff nod. “Nice to see you, Beth.”

Yeah. Beth’s _sure_. “You too, Mrs. McCune.”

Jimmy gives Beth a parting grimace before slamming the tailgate shut and climbing into the truck’s cab, and she can’t quite stifle her resultant pang of sympathy. He brought this on himself, sure, but he was standing up for _her_. He shouldn’t’ve hit Spencer, but he really was just trying his best to be a good friend.

Everyone else shuffles out of the way so Mrs. McCune can back out of her parking spot, and Andrea shoots Beth a wry smile.

“Hey, Beth. How you holding up?”

Beth returns the smile. Shrugs. “’Bout as well as I can, I guess.”

“Yeah, well. At least I didn’t have to help Rick talk the Monroes out of pressing charges over something _you_ did, anyway.”

Amy, at least, has the grace to look a little shamefaced, shrinking in on herself while her sister eyes Daryl. “This your boyfriend?” she asks Beth.

Daryl coughs, startled or flustered, but Beth smiles. “Yeah,” she says. “This’s Daryl—and this’s his brother, Merle.”

Merle gives Andrea a slow once over—and then another one, just in case he missed something the first go round. He must like what he sees, too, ’cause he smiles and says, “How _you_ doin’?”

Beth and Amy exchange disturbed looks, but Andrea—

God help them all, but Andrea’s sizing Merle up like she’s genuinely _thinking_ about it.

 _What_.

“Could be worse,” Andrea allows. “Considering that I don’t have to bail my sister out of jail, after all.”

“Know how that is,” Daryl mumbles, but Merle just grins and gives Andrea another top-to-bottom look.

Amy sidles closer to Beth and says, under her breath, “She’s always had awful taste in guys. Great taste in women, but _shitty_ taste in guys.”

The look Andrea shoots Amy suggests that she heard every word of that. “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s get out of here before you can find somebody else to physically assault. Bye, guys.”

Amy waves goodbye to Beth, then trails after her sister, saying, “Can I have my purse back or what?”

Beth exhales, slow and a little shaky. God, she’s exhausted.

Daryl tugs on her skirt, knuckles brushing her hip. “Y’alright?”

“Mhm.” She did what she came here to do, after all—she proved that she doesn’t care one bit what people have to say about her, proved that she could step out in public with her head held high. Set the record straight about her baby daddy, too, and, sure, things didn’t go exactly to plan, but when do they ever?

She tucks her hand into Daryl’s and laces their fingers together. “Y’all wanna get somethin’ to eat?” she asks.

Daryl squeezes her hand. “What about your folks?”

Beth shrugs. “They can come along too, if they want. So? You wanna?”

“I’m in,” says Merle, “but I ain’t payin’.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, but Beth just grins at them both. At her boys.

Yeah. She doesn’t care what anyone else has to say about it. As far as she’s concerned, she’s got it pretty good.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dixon-Greene family lunch date takes place off-screen between this chapter and the last, so I'm sorry if any of you were looking forward to reading about that. If it's any consolation, I go into quite a bit of detail regarding dessert. 
> 
> Daryl's dessert, specifically.

**Sunday, September 1 st **

 

Daryl scratches LS between her pointed ears while he waits for Beth to come out of the bathroom, leg bouncing about a mile a minute as the residual anxiety from this morning gradually drains from his system.  

Hand to God, he’s never been so thankful to see the inside of his shitty double wide. Today instilled in him a new appreciation for the place he calls home, ’cause he’ll take his cramped bedroom with the water stains on the ceiling over a sweltering church packed to bursting with patronizing Bible thumpers any damn day. Fuck, he doesn’t know how Beth stands that shit.

Well. Nah. Maybe he _does_ know. ’Cause Beth might not attend services as often as her father and sister do, but that ain’t a reflection on the strength of her faith—shouldn’t be, anyway. If God exists—He doesn’t, but let’s say for the sake of argument that He _does_ —Daryl doubts He keeps track of that shit on an attendance sheet. Doubts He keeps track of anything at all, if he’s honest.  

Daryl doesn’t begrudge Beth her belief, though, for all that he can’t wrap his head around the concept of a God who would create an entire fucking world only to turn His heavenly back on it while it flushed itself deeper and deeper down the shitter. Kind of envies her, even; wishes he had it in him to have faith in something he can’t see or touch. It sure speaks to some kind of strength, to be able to believe like that.

But Daryl doesn’t need to believe in a God, anyway, absent or otherwise. He doesn’t need to believe in God, because he already believes in Beth.

Christ, that sounds sappy, but can you fucking blame him? Seeing her today—watching her swan through that fucking parking lot in her white dress with her pretty hair combed and her head held high, it—

Fuck him raw, but it made him want to go down on his knees for her like a Catholic at mass. Who _wouldn’t_ want to worship her, looking like that, bright blue eyes sparking with defiance and silently daring any one of those God-fearing folks to test _her_ wrath. She looked about ready to slap the shit outta anyone who had the nerve to talk trash about her baby or the man she was having it with, all without dropping her aggressively polite smile for a single goddamn minute.  

Not until Spencer Monroe got his pussy ass beat, anyway.  

Daryl snorts, and Lil’ Shit’s ears swivel in his direction. She looks like she’s silently judging him and finding him wanting, but then, she always kinda does.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that, damn.” She doesn’t, at least not until he scratches her on the nape of her fluffy neck, and then her eyes slit shut, purr rumbling like a motorboat.

Beth might not’ve been a fan of the execution, but Daryl kind of wants to treat her friends to a pizza dinner or something, ’cause they saved him a whole helluva lotta trouble. He doubts that the Monroes would’ve been as forgiving of some dirty old redneck with a criminal for a brother as they were a couple of kids from good churchgoing families, but, fuck, he doesn’t think that anything short of seeing someone _else_ stomp the shit outta Spencer could’ve stopped him from tearing the sumbitch’s skinny little dick off and beating him upside the head with it. Hell, he might’ve held the guy down while Amy and Jimmy punched if he hadn’t been preoccupied with keeping Beth out of the line of fire.

He doesn’t know much about Amy, just that Beth went to school with her and that Merle wants to nail her sister—which, _Christ_ —but he’s already decided that he likes her as much as he likes anyone who isn’t Beth or a member of Rick’s family. As for Jimmy, well—Daryl’s grateful to him, sure, but he can’t quite bring himself to like the kid. And it ain’t ’cause he’s jealous of him or some dumb shit like that—Beth’s with _him_ ; she’s having _his_ baby—it’s just that he still hasn’t forgiven the guy for that stunt outside of the Planned Parenthood. Doubts he ever will.

But he doesn’t exactly hate Jimmy, either, not anymore, because he just plain _can’t_ hate anyone who’s in Beth’s corner. If the guy cares about Beth, that puts him and Daryl on the same side.

Kid’s still on thin ice, though. At the very least, somebody should strap him into one of those heavy harnesses with the big fake bellies that’re meant to simulate pregnancy, see how _he_ likes it.

Daryl’s yanked out of what’s spiraled into a relatively mild revenge fantasy by the sound of the bathroom door creaking open and swinging back shut. LS jumps off the couch, pauses to stretch, and then goes trotting over to Beth, who kneels to coo at her and stroke her under the chin.

And, hell. You’d think that Daryl would be used to how she looks in that dress by now, but, nah. His heart still jumps like he’s on cocaine whenever he sees her like that, same as it did when he first saw her this morning.

God, she’s just—she’s _something_ , alright. Something Daryl doesn’t have the vocabulary for, because, up till now, he never _needed_ to describe what he feels when he sees Beth in _anything_ , let alone a dress that makes her look like a bride on her goddamn wedding day.

 _Fuck_. Daryl bites his thumbnail. Mumbles, “Gonna get cat hair on your nice dress, you keep that up.”

There. That was almost a compliment. Gotta count for something, don’t it?

Christ, but he’s the dumbest fuck that ever did live, and that’s counting Merle _and_ his pop.

“It’ll be fine,” Beth says, but she lets off on petting LS and straightens up, backpack straps dangling from her fingers. “She’s already lost interest in me, anyways, see?”

And as if to prove Beth’s point, LS gives her ankle a parting rub before darting off down the hallway and disappearing into Merle’s room where they keep her kitty bed. Daryl doesn’t even know why he bought the damn thing, because, true to her name, Lil’ Shit’s much more likely to fall asleep on a pillow than she is to use the perfectly nice bed that Daryl picked out for her.   

Fucking ingrate.

At least Lil’ Shit’s the only troublemaking animal taking up space in Daryl’s house right now, ‘cause Merle took Dog out for a walk in the park almost as soon as they got back from lunch with Beth’s and Rick’s families. He has a sinking feeling that Hershel’s on to them, but he took a small measure of mercy on Daryl and kept his suspicions to himself when Beth climbed into Daryl’s truck after lunch with the shoddy excuse that her baby needed to spend some quality time with its daddy, as if a fetus in the womb can tell the fucking difference.

And don’t think Daryl missed the significant look Merle sent him on his way out, either; bastard seems to think he’s doing Daryl some kinda favor by leaving him alone with Beth.

There’s no way in hell Beth missed that shit. She ain’t stupid, and Merle ain’t subtle. She’s gotta know what Merle _thought_ would go on in his absence.

But maybe— _fuck_. Maybe she’s thinking something along those same lines. Maybe she wants to—

Nope. Daryl’s not gonna allow himself to so much as entertain the possibility, not unless Beth says something outright.

Fuck, _please_ let her say something.

“So, uh.” Beth sets her bag down and links her hands behind her back. Digs her toes into the floor and twists her foot from side to side. “Merle gonna be back any time soon?”

Daryl tries not to perk up too obviously at that, angling his right leg so Beth can’t get a clear look at his crotch—just in case.

“Uh.” He scratches at the underside of his jaw, nails rasping over skin that feels smoother than usual because his beard was getting out of control and he wanted to look _presentable_ or whatever the fuck. “Can’t say for sure. Hard to tell.”

“Oh.” Beth’s face falls, and Daryl wants to kick his own ass—wants to kick Merle’s ass, too, while he’s at it. Maybe he should tell her that Merle thinks he’s being _helpful_ or whatever by leaving them be for a few hours, and that he probably won’t be back anytime soon, except— “Guess I can’t show you your surprise, then, huh?”

And, yeah. Here’s the thing.

Before Beth, Daryl probably wouldn’t’ve gotten it. But this is _after_ Beth, and hell if she hasn’t rewired his brain like nobody’s business. Damn thing’s perpetually in the gutter where she’s concerned, so instead of pulling a face and asking her what the hell she means by _that_ , he swallows convulsively and fucking _croaks_ , “Don’t like surprises.”

Beth smiles so sweetly, so shyly, that Daryl kind of wants to jump on her—as if he didn’t already. “Pretty sure you’ll like this one.”

Daryl’s cock stirs in his shorts—fuck, goddammit—and he digs his fingers into the couch’s cheap upholstery like that’ll be enough to hold him back from taking her down and just fucking _railing_ her on the living room floor. He wants to scold her for being such a goddamn _cocktease,_ but there’s always the chance that he’s read her wrong, after all, and even if he hasn’t—he’s pretty sure he hasn’t—he still can’t convince his bone-dry tongue to do its fucking job and form fucking _words_. 

Turns out he doesn’t need to, though, because Beth’s got him, same as she always does. Her smile grows, flashing teeth, and she unlinks her hands from behind her back and pinches her fingers in her skirt. She takes hold of that skirt, and then she starts to pull it _up_.

Daryl’s heart leaps into his throat and lodges there, cutting off his breath as well as anything he’d be inclined to say if he _could_ remember how to speak. That skirt just keeps on inching higher and higher like a curtain being drawn up at the start of a play, revealing coltish ankles and smooth strong calves and the caps of her knees, and Daryl feels transported back to their first time in the Greenes’ empty farmhouse, to when Beth just straddled his goddamn lap, bold as you please but still somehow so fucking _shy_ , and dragged her sundress’s skirt up her legs to flash her little white panties at him.

This time’s different, though. Daryl doesn’t feel quite as guilty about wanting to fuck her, for one thing, and for another—

For another thing, Beth’s got one side of that skirt hiked up nearly to her waist, now, teasing him with the plump curve of her naked hip.

Right.

Her _naked_ hip.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

She ain’t—

_Fuck._

She’s not wearing any goddamn underwear.

Fuck. Mother _fuck_. Daryl’s blindsided, sucker punched, dick pushing at his inseam, heart pounding at every pulse point like it’s trying to escape the trap of his skin, fingernails practically tearing straight through the couch’s upholstery and into the fucking stuffing until they abruptly _aren’t_.

He’s standing up.

He doesn’t remember doing that.

“Jesus Christ.” Is that _his_ voice he’s hearing? He sounds like he’s been chain smoking unfiltered cigarettes for hours, for _days_ , and that makes no goddamn sense at all, seeing as he quit cold turkey weeks ago. “You went to church like that?”

It makes his dick throb like a wound, to think about her like that, sitting right next to him for the duration of that too-long service, prim as a virgin in her white dress with her knees pressed politely together and her hands folded in her lap, fingers resting inches away from the mound of her cunt, smiling to herself while she breathed softly against his shoulder and just _sat there_ in that pew with _no fucking underwear_ on.  

But Beth shakes her head, smile turning shy again, cheeks turning dusky pink. She lets go of her skirt, and it swishes back into place like she never lifted it at all.

“Nah,” she says quietly, like they’re still at church and she doesn’t wanna interrupt the pastor’s sermon. “I took ’em off in the bathroom. They’re in my bag.”

Oh. Well. That explains why Daryl didn’t hear running water while she was in there, anyway. To be honest, he’d been too keyed up to really think about it at the time.

He’s _still_ well and truly keyed the fuck up, so out of his fucking head that he’s eyeballing Beth’s backpack like he’s gonna straight-up snatch it or something. But, nah—he won’t. Much as he’d like to get his hands on her panties, he’d much rather get his hands on _her_.

All _fucking_ over her.

When he takes a stalking step forward, she giggles a little nervously and takes a corresponding step back. Daryl darts a look from her flushed face to his bedroom door and back again, strategizing, calculating. She’s closer to it than he is, if she wants to try and lead him on a chase, but his legs are longer, so he’d probably catch her before she could make it all the way.

It doesn’t actually matter if she gets there first—so long as she winds up in his bedroom, he wins—but he really, _really_ wants to catch her.

He takes another step, feeling a little bit like he’s tracking a doe through the brush, and just like a doe startling at the sound of a snapping twig, that’s when Beth bolts, turning tail and scurrying off. But her long skirt twists around her legs and impedes her, keeps her from moving as quickly as she could in pants, and she hasn’t even made it halfway down the yardstick hallway before Daryl’s caught her. He snatches her up, spins her around, tugs on her silky ponytail and kisses her breathless giggle right out of her open mouth.

A satisfied groan rumbles in his sternum as soon as he gets those soft lips under his, and hell if he doesn’t actually sound like a wolf with its muzzle in a deer’s belly, all shameless hunger. It’s a hunger that drives him to lap up the taste of the vanilla bean Chapstick she reapplied after lunch, getting the filmy residue stuck to his mouth, his beard, tracking it all over his cheeks and chin like spit as they fumble at each other, too turned on to spare any thought for finesse—as if he had any finesse to begin with, Christ.

But Beth isn’t complaining, so fuck it. She seems to be enjoying herself just fine, humming into the kiss while her fingers catch in his hair and dig into his scalp, hips shunting forward to rub the mound of her pussy against his straining dick. Can’t quite reach with him in his boots and her in her ballet flats, though, so she clambers to stand on his toes, and he cups her plush ass in his hands, hikes her up a little higher and gets her thigh slung around his hip, and, oh, Christ. He can feel her pussy burning hot through her skirt, and now he’s thinking about the arousal that’s probably dripping out of her right this fucking instant, of the musky smell he remembers from their first and only time together seeping into her nice dress, and if he doesn’t get her flat on her back in his bed _now_ , he just might literally die of blue balls.

He tears his mouth away from hers, pants wetly against her cheek while he tries to pull himself together as best he can. His lips feel cold without hers on them, so why the fuck isn’t he doing something about that? Fuck. _Fuck_. What was he thinking, again?

Beth nuzzles into his throat, runs her tongue across the short stubble that’s grown back in since this morning. God, she smells so fucking _good._ “Daryl? Somethin’ wrong?”

Oh. Right.

Daryl gives her ass a parting squeeze and draws a startled laugh out of her when he swings her up into his arms. He heads for his bedroom door and nudges it the rest of the way open with his foot, ’cause if she’s gonna dress like a bride, then he might as well carry her over the threshold like one.

He sets her down on her own two feet, double checks that his curtains are drawn firmly closed, and then shuts and locks the door. Merle’ll probably be gone for a while yet, but Lil’ Shit could always nudge the door open and come prancing on in here, and the last thing Daryl needs is her curling up on his pillow for a nap while he’s in the middle of fucking Beth.

Just thinking about it—just thinking about fucking Beth, of slipping into the wet, humid space between her strong farmgirl thighs and losing himself in the tight clutch of her pussy—makes him feel raw, stripped, fucking skinned alive, and he fumbles for her, drags her up flush against him so he can kiss her again, so he can push his hand up her stomach and palm her firm little tits, and, oh, fuck, her nipple comes up hard as a diamond beneath his palm ’cause she ain’t wearing no goddamn bra, neither.

“ _Hmmm_.” Beth trails a line of kisses through his stubble, latches onto the soft space below his ear and sucks like she intends to leave a mark. Cuts off that suction to murmur a question against his skin. “What d’you want, Daryl? C’mon, you gotta tell me what you want.”

What does he _want_? Is she seriously asking him that goddamn question right now? Can’t she feel what he _wants_ pushing at her belly, hard and heavy with blood for her? Hasn’t she felt it time and again these past few weeks whenever she clambered into his lap to kiss him harder, longer, cunt grinding up and down the line of his dick through their clothes? All that, and she’s gotta hear him say it, too?

He _will_ say it, though, if that’s what she wants. He’ll give her anything she wants just so long as she asks. Or, hell, _orders_. He ain’t picky.

“Wanna fuck you,” he admits, voice coming out thick and raspy like he’s got a fucking head cold or something, and he slips his hand past her neckline to feel up her bare tit, to squeeze the soft little mound that’s topped by her hard little nipple. He plants his face in the sweaty crook of her neck, licks the salt off her skin like a mutt lapping up a treat. “Can I?”

“ _God_ , Daryl,” she says, kind of like she’s praying to them both. Her hips twist up and _up_ , circling restlessly like he’s already inside of her, like she’s grinding around in his lap with nothing between them this time, just her cunt and his dick and the come that pours out of them both. “Yeah, you can. God, _Jesus_ , you can do whatever you want with me.”

It’s a wonder he doesn’t nut his shorts right then, honestly, although it’s definitely a near thing.

“Don’t say that shit to me, girl, Jesus.” He drags his hand out of her dress, frames her face and plucks a long, wet kiss off her pretty mouth, suckling on her lower lip and bringing it up all puffy and pink. “Don’t wanna let you outta my bed as it is, damn.”

Beth’s swollen lips stretch into a pink-taffy smile. She’s got his shirt halfway unbuttoned—when the hell did _that_ happen?—and his muscles twitch convulsively when she scratches her rounded nails down his chest. “Gotta get me _in_ your bed, first.”

Yeah. Fair point. And he’s _gonna_ , but first he stoops and gathers the folds of her pristine skirt in his scarred hands and _tugs_ , up and up till it’s all the way off and slipping over her head with a loud crackle of static. He should probably do the considerate thing and fold it up nice and neat so it doesn’t get wrinkled or whatever, but, fuck it, he’ll iron the damn thing for her if he has to; he’s gotta get at her _right now_ and he hasn’t got the patience for detours, not when he’s been driven damn near crazy by his want for her, so he tosses that dress to one side where it lands in a snowy heap and just.

Stares.

He’s seen her completely naked once before. Just the once, and fuck if it hadn’t haunted him from that day forward, the flare of her hips and the length of her uncovered legs plaguing his fucking dreams. _She’d_ been the one to take her dress off that time, had just fucking dropped it in a puddle at her feet, face uncertain but the angle of her chin defiant, like she was just _daring_ him to find some fault with her.

As if he ever fucking could.

She tilts her chin at him now, smiling softly, but there’s a shy glint in her eyes still. Her arms twitch at her sides like she wants to cover herself, and, yeah, nope. Daryl grabs her hands and steps forward to kiss her, gentler than he thought he would, surprised that he’s got any gentleness left in him at all, he’s so desperate for her.

“Knock that shit off,” he mumbles against the bolt of her jaw, nudging her towards the bed until the backs of her knees hit the mattress, so that she flops down with a little huff. He crouches in front of her and slips off her pale pink shoes, thumbing the arches of her feet before pushing his hands farther up her legs, palming her thighs and spreading them apart to expose the slit of her cunt, inhaling the thick wet smell of her through his open mouth. He wants to tell her that she’s beautiful, that she’s fucking perfect, but it’s like he said earlier: he just doesn’t have the vocabulary for that shit.  

All he can do is _show_ her what he feels when he looks at her.

And he thought he remembered what she looks like, but his memory, sharp as it is, doesn’t do the real thing one bit of justice—not that he really expected it to. Because, fuck, how can an image in his head compare to _this_ , to the reality of her pink cunt glimmering wetly at him through the short thicket of her dark blond pubic hair? Her tits and hips are a little fuller than before, her belly a little rounder, but other than that, her body is unchanged. You wouldn’t know from looking at her that she’s pregnant, that she’s pregnant from _him_. That it was _his fucking come_ that knocked her up, _fuck_.

He realizes that he’s staring when her legs give an anxious bounce, and he sweeps his hands up her thighs to circle his fingers over her hips like he’s soothing a spooked horse. That seems to calm her down a little, and even though he still feels self-conscious about removing his shirt in front of her, he undoes the rest of his buttons and shrugs it off to even the playing field some, to make her feel better. Unbuckles his belt and unzips his fly while he’s at it, too, not because he intends to fuck her right this instant without any real foreplay—Christ, no—but because his inseam was digging into his cock and the thing was feeling fit to snap off.

He gives himself a fleeting squeeze that makes his eyelids flutter like they’re attached to leaded weights, and Beth’s fingers twitch like she wants to touch him, too. He’d like that—fuck, _would_ he—but if she _did_ , if she got her warm little hand inside his shorts and wrapped firmly around his dick, he’d go off like a bottle rocket and embarrass them both. So. For his sake, this’ll have to be a little one sided.

Not that he minds.

He roots in deeper between her legs so she can’t reach his dick and wraps his arms around her waist, trailing kisses down her abdomen, tonguing at the space below her navel, chin brushing wiry pubic hair as the smell of her cunt grows stronger in his nose. _Fuck_. Fuck, but he wants—he really fucking wants to—he just—

“Wanna eat your pussy,” he mumbles, inhaling conspicuously through his nose as saliva pools under his tongue. Beth cupped his head in her hands when he hugged her ’round the waist, and now her fingers twitch against the curve of his skull. She’s—surprised?

“Uh. Are you—are you sure you wanna do that? I mean, I—I didn’t shave or anything.”

What the fuck? _So_? “Don’t give a shit,” he growls, and licks a stripe across her lower abdomen, the edge of his tongue rasping through her pubes. Beth punches out a whine when he does that—that’s encouraging—and her legs hug his shoulders, strong enough to make a willing captive out of him. “Jus’ wanna eat you out. Wanna lick your pussy so bad, girl.” When he looks up the length of her body, he finds that her eyes are wide and wet. He fumbles for her hand, gives it a squeeze. Clears his throat. Christ, he can’t believe he’s saying this shit. “Y’gonna let me?”

Beth nods immediately, but she looks a little embarrassed, too, like she shouldn’t want him to do this to her. Fuck that noise. If they both want it—and, fuck, does he want it—then why shouldn’t they do it? Why shouldn’t he do everything in his power to make her feel good?

So now that that’s all settled, he presses the flat of his palm to her stomach and gives a gentle push. She takes the hint and lies back, hips poised on the edge of the mattress, legs dangling over the side. Her breath fills the room, unsteady and uncertain, thighs jumping when Daryl shifts around and sits back on his haunches to get a better look at her. At the pussy he wants to eat like dessert.

He’s never done this for anybody before—never wanted to. Guess that makes him an asshole, ’cause even _Merle_ likes to go down on women, and he ain’t a feminist by any stretch, but the fact is that Daryl never wanted to draw sex out. Never wanted to linger over whatever strange, strung-out woman Merle had pushed at him that night like he was trying to get him to prove something about himself.  

Beth’s different. He wants her in ways he’s never wanted anybody else before, wants every part of her that she’ll give him. Anyway, if he’s that bad at it, or if she doesn’t like it, he’ll stop. But, fuck, if she’s gonna give him a chance, then he’s goddamn willing to learn. What he lacks in experience, he’s pretty fucking certain he can make up for in sheer enthusiasm.

And trust him when he says he’s feeling goddamned _enthused._

His mouth still tastes like vanilla Chapstick, but it also tastes like the stale wafer and sour grape juice he had for communion, blood and body, and he overwhelms all of those tastes with sweat and musk when he runs his tongue up the inside of Beth’s thigh, when he laps up the moisture that’s trickling down her leg, she’s so turned on. She jerks, moans high and sweet and breathy, and he nuzzles into the crease where her thigh meets her hip, noses into her flared cunt, inhales through his mouth and shoves his hand into his shorts to hold himself off, to keep from coming on himself right then, because, _shit_. Shit, her pussy’s just—

He doesn’t have the words. Still. But who fucking needs them? He can think up a couple dozen better uses for his tongue, anyway, so he _puts it to use_ , sticking it out and pushing it into her cunt like he’s pushing it into her mouth, his satisfied moan overwhelming her shocked squeal. Her fingers catch in his hair, her feet come up and brace themselves against his shoulders, the new position tilting her hips so he can get at even more of her, so he can suck the taste of her come down his throat.

And he doesn’t wanna take his mouth off of her for anything, but he wants to see her, too, wants to see how she looks when she’s all worked open and covered in his spit, so he leans back a little to take her in, flushed and puffy, clit coming up fat and hard and throbbing like Daryl’s own cock. The wet little hollow of her cunt looks too small to take him, let alone push out a baby, even though he knows that both things are possible—knows the one from experience, the other from facts of biology—and he pushes two fingers inside of her as if to test how far she can stretch, grunting like an animal when she clamps down tight around him, hot and sticky, when she gets his skin all smeared with come that feels like warm, tacky oil.

He pulls his fingers out of her clinging pussy, holds her down with a heavy hand on her jumping stomach, jerks his dick and dives back in.

“ _Daryl_ ,” Beth chokes out, pulling so hard on his hair it’s a wonder she doesn’t rip it out by the goddamn roots. He doesn’t think he’d give a shit if she _did_ , because all he cares about right now is _this_ : her pubic hair rasping at his beard, her soaked pussy parting under his tongue like a bird’s spread wings, her clit pulsing between his lips when he wraps his mouth around it and _sucks_. His wet fingers bite into her abdomen; her sweaty thighs tremble against the sides of his head; her hips ride up against his face and damn near suffocate him. “God, Daryl, fuck, I—I don’t—I’m—”

He releases her clit with a wet little pop, gives it a couple kitten lips. “S’okay, girl, I got you.” He fucks his tongue into her pussy, drawing out more slick and smearing it over her clit like paint, like icing, like sacramental wine. Her shaking hand gropes for his, holds on tight. “I got you, c’mon, I got you. Want you to come in my mouth, girl, _fuck_ , c’mon.”

“ _Daryl_.” Her thighs hug his ears, block off most of his hearing, but that’s fine, so long as he can still hear her saying his name like _that_. “Oh, God, Daryl, _Jesus_.”

 _Fuck._ If Daryl was ever going to believe in God, he’d believe in Him right now, with his head buried between Beth’s thighs and her pussy leaking come all over his mouth and beard. Still, he doesn’t, and that’s fine. It’s like he said: he doesn’t need to believe in God when he can believe in Beth, and he sure as hell doesn’t need to eat stale wafers in a crowded Baptist church when he could be taking communion at her feet instead, sucking on her sweet ripe pussy like a peach until her breath catches and her hips smash into his jaw, until she comes and comes all over his face, crying out like she’s shocked by what she’s feeling, nails cutting into his hand and his scalp.

Oh, Christ. _Christ_ —

Daryl doesn’t let up on eating her through her aftershocks, not even for a second, not even when she whines and squirms and begs him to give her a minute, just a minute. He keeps working at her while he fumbles to get his dick out of his shorts, while he scoops her come onto his fingers and slicks it over his hand so he can jerk himself off to the feel and taste of her, too far gone to give a shit about his aching knees and bruised jaw, lasting all of ten seconds before he’s coming, too, coming in thick nasty ropes all over his bedspread, all over the goddamn floor.  

He pulls off her pussy like a swimmer breaking the surface for air, panting like a dog, and rests his face against her trembling belly, licking the taste of her come off his lips.

She pets his hair, and he shuts his eyes, turning his face to nuzzle at her warm skin.

Nah.

Call him pussy whipped, but he really doesn’t need to believe in anything but this.


End file.
